











































\ 







% 



















A Few Press Opinions on 

New Note 



World 

“ The latest book of which people are talking ; this new 
book is very much up to date. ’ * 

Daily Telegraph 

* ‘ The book is really a remarkable one, of high literary 
quality, replete with strong human interest and displaying 
masterly ability. Widespread popularity awaits ‘A New 
Note.’ Ere long everybody who is anybody will read it.” 

St. James’s Gazette 

“ Eminently readable, and we should say will be read. 
The writing is brisk and clever, and the character-drawing 
very good.” 

Hanchester Guardian 

“ Its merits are far above the average, the characters are 
admirably drawn, they are living people and stand out in 
solid relief amid the shadowy unsubstantial hosts that 
people the pages of most modern fiction. The authoress 
has knowledge of the human heart. There is much clever- 
ness and power in the book.” 

Saturday Review 

“ A promising story ; the verdict on this must be decided- 
ly favorable.” 

Guardian 

“It is of an uncommon power and breadth, rare and 
vivacious humor. Its incidents and mise-en-scene are de- 
cidedly fresh, and the conversations brisk and to the point.” 

St. Paul’s 

“Shows much knowledge of character and skill in por- 
traiture. There is scarcely a character that we might not 
single out for praise * the dialogue, too, is excellent — smart 
without being flippant, and witty without being labored.” 


A Few Press Opinions on 4 A New Note f — Continued 


Athenaeum 

“ This cleverly written novel. . . . The book is written 
with considerable alertness of style, and the sketches of the 
old maiden aunt and half a dozen other minor characters 
are touched off with no little skill and humor.” 

Post 

“ Its crisply rounded phrases, bright dialogues, and gen- 
eral knowledge of the world, might be envied by many a 
practised writer. The book is a novelty in the best sense 
of the term, vivacious and refined. ” 

Academy 

“ The note in the book is struck well, and with a purpose 
— delicate insight into shades of feeling and certain hold of 
human nature. The characters the author has made her 
own she has made a distinct success.’ ’ 

Post 

“ Combines adequate knowledge of the world with a high 
degree of literary skill. The character of the heroine is 
admirably conceived and managed. The situations are 
powerful without effort, and the dialogue is often as brill- 
iant as the reflections are shrewd. This is one of the novels 
of the season.” 

Times 

“ It introduces to the novel reading public a writer of no 
mean powers. A story of human interest, thoroughly 
bright and wholesome. The heroine is a new conception. 
Every reader of the book will readily recognise the genuine 
gifts of the author.” 

Speaker 

“There is undoubted ability in ‘A New Note.’ The 
author is clever and can write well ; she can also draw accu- 
rate sketches of the better side of social life.” 

Globe 

“The author displays a feeling for character, skill in 
dealing with the crises and events, and a pleasant style.” 

nail 

‘ ‘ A clever bit of literary work, well conceived and admi- 
rably developed. The heroine is that extraordinary latter- 
day creation, ‘ a new woman.’ ” 


A NEW NOTE 




























































* 

^ • ' 

r » 

. 










■Hi 

- 

- * ’ 

»* 

* “ 

* -* 











» 











♦ ^ 




2 










* • 




« • ; ,r, . 

» • 

1 - 




*. .» - 






. * 




* s r 




t 

\ ■ 






« t 


■v 


y- ' 




% 




•;> •• 




























\ 










* : » ■ * 

.:.• -r 


' 








•Iv 


- 

s 








. 






# - 










•t • 








































>• * 



















» 






















The clock had struck seven before Victoria lowered her violin. 

— Page 27 





A NEW NOTE 


/ 

BY 

ELLA MacMAHON 

I* 

AUTHOR OF 

“A MODERN MAN,” “A PITIFUI, PASSION,” ETC 


ILLUSTRATED BY 

WIZARD BONTE 

{ APR #5 1896) 

NEW YORK 

R. F. FENNO & COMPANY 

112 FIFTH AVENUE 

LONDON : HUTCHINSON & CO 
34 Paternoster Row 






i 

ajx> 


f'Z-'i . 

. 


Copyright, 1895 
By EU,A McMAHON 



(AAAA. 




A New Note 


A NEW NOTE, 


♦ 

CHAPTER L 

Two people were walking in the avenue of beeches. 
The beeches at Eastaston formed an aisle, nearly a 
mile in length from end to end. The two people 
were about mid-way in the aisle. The mellow sun- 
shine of October swept slantwise through the trees, 
and lay across the soft brown carpet of leaves beneath 
their feet. The two, a man and a woman, walked on 
slowly. 

“So it is to be in November, after all ?” said the 
man. 

“ Yes, the end of November ; Joachim thinks I am 
quite ready.” 

“ And your father has given his consent ? ” 

“ My father has given his consent.” 

There was silence. 

The father of the girl was a prominent politician, 
and the consent that he had given was that his 
daughter might forthwith enter upon the career of 
a professional violinist. 

The man drew in his breath sharply. The girl’s 
gaze went straight onwards in serene contemplation 

s 


6 


A NEW NOTE. 


of the golden lights streaking and emblazoning the 
trellis of beech leaves. After a moment or two the 
man turned and glanced at her face. It was worth 
a man’s while to look at, though it was not pretty. 
Intellect, in a woman’s face, shunts prettiness aside 
very imperiously. This girl’s face was keenly intel- 
lectual, otherwise it might, possibly, have attained 
to prettiness. The features were very delicate, very 
clear cut, just a little sarcastic. The complexion 
was pale, a pure intense pallor. The mouth was 
exceedingly delicate, but on the whole firm, and the 
lurking sarcasm lingered about the lips. At her age, 
however,— she was just five-and-twenty, — time and 
circumstance had not yet definitely carved out the 
lines of the mouth. Much would depend as to their 
ultimate direction upon how time and circumstance 
might use its owner. A cloud of soft, very dark hair, 
dexterously and becomingly crimped and curled, came 
low down oil her brow, over her eyes. The latter 
were peculiar. Dark, and, at first sight, bright and 
somewhat imperious, at second sight it might be 
seen that they were dreamy, intent, luminous, rather 
than brilliant. Further, that in the small dark 
iris something of the strenuous listening gaze 
shone deeply, recalling the eyes of Beethoven in 
the portraits familiar to most people. 

The girl’s whole personality was intensely strenu- 
ous ; her small fragile figure was quick with energy 
and strong purpose. The picture of her were in- 
complete were it not added that in every line, and 
attitude, and gesture she revealed the indefinable 
but unmistakable quality which is called distinction, 
emphasized by extreme care and good taste in the 
arrangement of her clothing and of all the appur- 


A NEW NOTE. 


7 


tenances thereto. As she walked on now, not a 
woman of her acquaintance but would have envied 
the admirable simplicity of her brown suit of home- 
spun tweed, the perfection of its cut, and fit, and 
finish, down to the exact arrangement of the buttons 
on the sleeves. Moreover, as she was unaffectedly 
vain of her feet, she wore her skirts, in the country, 
as short as possible, so that the nattiness of her 
little thick-soled brown shoes and smart gaiters 
might have satisfactory display. 

The man who looked down at her had no especial 
distinctiveness of appearance, other than that he 
was unmistakably a gentleman. He was broadly 
built, and well made, and his face, which was fair and 
ruddy in hue, was much sunburnt It was a good 
straight face, very indicative of the character of its 
owner. He was an Irishman, a quiet silent man. 
There are quiet silent Irishmen. Yet his voice first 
broke the silence now. 

“ Victoria ! ” His companion started perceptibly. 
She knew what was coming : “ But if he will he will,” 
she said to herself with an inward laugh; “it is always 
the way.” “ Victoria,” — he spoke slowly, and she was 
conscious of irritation, — “you know as well as I do 
my feelings for you.” 

The girl made a gesture of deprecation. 

“ Oh yes, you do. Of course I am not your equal 
at all as regards brains and cleverness, and all that ; 
we’re simply not in the same street ; bul, after all, a 
girl like you ” (his eyes fastened again on the delicate 
profile) “ is absolutely certain to make men want to 
marry you ; and look here, darling Victoria, I should 
do everything you liked. You’d be fifty times freer, 
if you married me.” His voice was very quiet; nobody, 


8 


A NEW NOTE. 


hearing it, could have told that every pulse in him 
was throbbing as he touched his fate. “ You see” — 
she let him go on, resolved to allow him to say all he 
had to say — “You see, I know all about your Art, 
and your ambition, and you could fire away at the 
fiddling as much as ever you liked. I’m sure you’ll 
make yourself famous one of these days. I don’t 
like any of their fiddle-playing as much as yours.” 

The dreaminess went out of the girl’s dark eyes, 
and mirth flashed up. Being an Irishman, she 
thought, he probably knows “ God save the Queen ” 
from “ St. Patrick’s Day in the Morning.” 

“ But 99 (her attention was brought back to his 
words) “ all that need not prevent your marrying me. 
It’s not as if we were poor people. On the contrary, 
you can devote yourself to Art without bothering 
about money ; and I shall be there, you know, just to 
take care of you, and to — to help you out. Do, do, 
listen to me, Victoria ! ” 

“ I am listening,” said Victoria, “ most attentively.” 

“ Then you will ? ” His voice and his face grew 
eager; he came a little closer. 

The girl stood still. With her walking-stick she 
poked round holes in the carpet of leaves as she 
spoke. 

“ It is so hopeless,” she said, “ to try to make you 
understand.” She spoke rapidly, with a peculiarly 
clear and refined intonation. “ But the fact is, 
you are altogether outside my feelings. To me the 
whole worth of life is my career. It is, to me, 
as a career in politics, or law, or soldiering is to a 
man. Marriage is so unnecessary, so needless for 
me.” 

“ But a man,” said the man, “ may have a career, 


A NEW NOTE. 


9 


and yet may wish for marriage as well.” He thought 
this argument a deadly missile. 

His companion smiled indulgently. 

“ True, quite true, but the cases are not the same. 
A man married is as free as air, practically, so far as 
his career is concerned ; but a woman, — no, her career 
is closed. Oh yes, I know what you would say about 
the great women, writers, and artists, and musicians, 
who have been married women, but it’s a mistake 
for all that. The fact still remains that, whatever 
chance a woman may have who marries after her 
career is assured and her triumph made , to marry 
before it is fatal.” 

“Well, then, when your career is assured may I 
come back and marry you ? ” 

“ No, no, I didn’t say that” was the quick response ; 
“ how you do catch one up ! I was merely speaking 
generally . Individually, my tastes are not matrimonial ; 
you ought to know that by this time.” 

He ought, and he did. He had known her from 
childhood. He had been at Eton with her eldest 
brother, and he was nearly ten years her senior. But 
his was a strongly persistent nature. Slow, silent, 
self-contained natures often are. 

“ I love you, Victoria — no, don’t frown, for I have 
a right to say so, at any rate, and I would take any 
risk. Of course, if you think some chap who was 
cleverer would suit you better, I suppose there’s no 
more to be said. Only, let him be the greatest man 
on earth in point of brains and all that, he could not 
love you better than I do.” 

The cold, delicate girl’s face softened. The sarcasm 
almost died out of it. 

“You are ten thousand times too good for me 


10 


A NEW NOTE. 


Jerry ; but believe me, brains, as you call it, has 
nothing to do with this. On the contrary, I wouldn’t 
marry a man with brains for all the world. No 
mistake could possibly be more disastrous. Men 
with brains have tempers, and are querky. I have a 
temper, and / am querky — result ” 

She spread out her hands significantly, and laughed. 

“ Clever women,” she added plaintively, “ will make 
that mistake. Clever men never do. They in- 
variably fall in love with simpletons. They are 
perfectly wise.” 

“They are,” returned the man stolidly, “and I 
wish you’d fall in love with me.” 

The girl laughed again. 

“Love — love, how you harp on that same old 
string ! ” 

(Yet she was an artist; possibly something more.) 

“ Some day you will harp on it yourself, Victoria, 
and then ” 

“ Then,” she finished imperturbably, “ I shall have 
an opportunity of judging if it be really so charming 
to the ear, and so difficult to reduce to the level of 
common harmonies, as is generally supposed.” 

He threw back his head with a gesture of im- 
movable patience. 

“ Then it is to be Art only, Victoria ? ” 

“It is to be Art only,” she repeated gravely. “ You 
are very dear and good, Jerry, and a real friend, but 
marriage ” 

She lifted her eyebrows unmistakably. 

“Let us walk on,” she resumed more briskly, “it 
must be getting towards tea-time.” 

“ Half-past four,” said the man quietly ; “ just wait 
a minute.” 


A NEW NOTE. 


II 


She put her stick to the ground firmly, and waited. 

“Victoria,” — his face paled a little, — “just, as it’s 
good-bye, may I kiss you ? only once, I swear it” 

Her brows contracted quickly. 

“ Oh, no, Jerry. Don’t be silly and boyish.” 

“ It would do you no harm,” he pleaded. 

“ It would do me no good, nor you either. My 
dear boy, do come on ; we shall be perfectly late for 
tea.” 

He walked up to the house without another word. 

But just in the portico he said once more, — 

“ Look here, Victoria ; remember, if at any time 
you should think better of it, or chuck up Art, or 
anything , just let me know. I’ll do anything you 
wish, and I’ll never change.” 

She only smiled and nodded and ran off. 

# * # # * 

“Man,” reflected the young lady, as she took off 
her hat, and carefully studied the re-arrangement of 
her hair in the looking-glass, “ man is still a primitive 
creature ; he has not yet got over the conviction that 
woman is created only to be made love to.” 

Her hair being satisfactory, she went down to tea. 


CHAPTER II. 


Tea during the autumn was always in the inner hall. 
The latter was also known as the “ Gibbons Room,” 
because of some apocryphal carved wainscoting 
attributed to Grinling Gibbons, — although, as the 
master of the house always said, Grinling Gibbons 
had no more to do with carving it than he had. The 
master of the house was standing now by the fire- 
place. He was talking to the man from whom his 
daughter Victoria had lately parted in the portico. 
Nobody looking in this man’s face would have 
gathered from it that the hopes of years had for 
him just been finally extinguished. 

FitzGerald Annesley, or, as his friends called him, 
Jerry Annesley, did not wear his feelings on his 
sleeve, or in his face, for kind friends to analyse. 

He was talking now — to be more accurate he was 
listening while Victoria’s father talked — about the 
value of mangold-wurzel as reliable dietary for fed 
beasts. Victoria came in just at this moment, and 
her father glanced across at her. His eyes met her 
dark ones with the glance of one to another between 
whom there is a good deal of confidence. The 
likeness between father and daughter was sufficiently 
marked to be noticeable. But the man’s personality 
had not, in anything like an equal degree, the energy 
or strenuousness which distinguished that of his 
daughter. People said of the Right Hon. George 

la 


A NEW NOTE. 


13 


Leathley, M.P., that he might have been a great man 
in his own line — which was politics — only that he 
was too lazy and too good-humoured to take the 
trouble. His appearance perhaps in no small measure 
bore this out. In appearance, indeed, this prominent 
politician — for such he was in spite of laziness and 
good-humour — bore an acknowledged resemblance 
to one of the most admired and most admirable 
actors of the present day : a resemblance to which, 
perhaps, a certain humorous twist about his well- 
cut lips not a little contributed. As he continued 
the mangold-wurzel discussion his eyes followed his 
youngest daughter's movements. The younger man's 
eyes avoided her. 

Victoria steered her way to the tea-table, at which 
her eldest brother's wife was presiding. She got a 
cup of tea and a little chunk of hot buttered toast, 
and she proceeded to drink her tea and eat her toast 
in comparative solitude and complete silence, poised 
alone on a corner of the oak settle. A magnificent 
black cat, who wore a red leather collar, rose from a 
long-haired rug, stretched his lordly length in refresh- 
ing abandon , and seated himself presently close against 
her feet. 

William the Conqueror was the cat's name. He 
was also known in the family as “ Victoria's familiar 
spirit." 

Victoria's eyes looked misty and serious and 
abstracted. Nor was she apparently conscious that 
William the Conqueror had started elaborate toilet 
operations in his comfortable retreat against her 
skirts. 

Two people, who were watching her from a far 
corner of the hall, concluded that she was enjoying 


14 


A NEW NOTE. 


one of the flights of mental fancy or imagination to 
which persons of artistic inclinations are supposed to 
be prone at odd moments. As a matter of fact, she 
was thinking that the hot buttered toast was not hot 
but cold, and wondering vaguely how long her sister- 
in-law would be likely to submit to that sort of 
thing. 

“ Look at Victoria and William the Conqueror,” 
said one of the two people who were watching her. 
The speaker was a young man, and the person 
addressed was a very young girl with fair crinkly 
hair. The owner of the crinkly hair laughed a 
little. 

“ How funny it sounds, doesn't it — Victoria and 
William the Conqueror?” 

“Eh? Oh, by Jove, yes, I suppose it does. I 
wonder if that was why they called him William the 
Conqueror.” 

His companion did not seem to hear. 

“ How distraite your cousin looks.” 

The young man put up his eyeglass. 

“ Music hath charms, you know,” he said, with 
rather an indulgent smile. He spoke to his com- 
panion as if he thought her young. She did not 
appear to resent it, although she was young — in every 
respect. 

“ The artistic temperament,” he resumed, “ is not 
understanded of the people. It demands too much, 
and your ordinary people of the world, especially of 
our world, don’t like any demand which exceeds what 
they are willing to give. Now no ordinary world, 
constructed on the principles of this one, could satisfy 
the true artistic temperament, and the true artistic 
temperament takes jolly good care to let the world 


A NEW NOTE. 


15 


know as much. And the world is like the old fairy 
godmother of the fables : accept her gifts, and she 
loads you with more or less valuable or valueless 
continuance of her goodwill ; but refuse and despise 
her, and she soon makes her castigation felt. The 
world is the real fairy godmother, capricious, im- 
perious, good-natured to a certain degree, but in- 
tolerant of any question of her absolute supremacy.” 

He paused and smiled. The rounding off of that 
sentence pleased him. He thought of how well it 
would look in print. At the present time his thoughts 
generally tended towards print. It also pleased him 
to see that the young girl, to whom he was, in his 
own opinion, good-naturedly devoting his pearls of 
wisdom and epigram, was regarding him with quite 
evident admiration and respect. As he paused, it 
struck her that it was required of her to say some- 
thing, but a certain haziness of perception as to the 
remark or remarks needful kept her silent, no less 
than the fear of seeming ridiculous in the eyes of her 
companion. 

“ I simply won’t make a fool of myself,” she said 
inwardly. 

It might have consoled her had she known that 
her companion was not at all inclined to despise her. 
On the contrary, his opinion of her perceptive powers 
was rising higher. She evidently appreciated him, 
and, now that he looked at it, her crinkly hair was 
really very pretty, and admirably dressed. He began 
again to scatter more jewels of wisdom and epigram, 
but with a sudden change of outlook which added to 
his companion’s mystification. 

“ But I tell you what, the tyranny of the artistic 
temperament is a distinct bore. Upon my word, it is 


i6 


A NEW NOTE. 


one of the most distinct bores just now. Every little 
Tom, Dick, or Harry, Dolly or Kate, who likes listen- 
ing to classical music, or enjoys the Lyceum Theatre, 
or goes to Switzerland in the Long Vacation and 
comes home raving of the Riffel Alp, or even gets 
sentimental when there’s a full moon, and tells one 
that everything ‘jars/ and they don’t think there can 
be much hope for this world, and no hope at all of 
any other, — all these little boys and girls ” (the 
speaker was barely thirty) “pose and zmpose their 
‘artistic temperament * for the benefit of suffering 
society.” 

He paused again, because as he uttered the last 
two words it flashed upon him that they would 
look admirably effective at the top of a column — 
“ Suffering Society,” neat and alliterative, he said to 
himself. 

“Ye — es,” said his auditor tentatively; but her 
well-meant expression of due and comprehensive 
interest was not necessary, because the speaker 
needed only free scope for the full flow of his para- 
graphs. They were indeed only spoken paragraphs. 
Already his mind’s eye had set them in type. The 
obedient admiration which sat in silence beside 
him was all that was wanted. The obedient admira- 
tion was a good deal mystified, but perhaps that 
was no great drawback, for, from the beginning 
of time, and in all probability to the end of time 
too, mystification will always convey to the ordinary 
mind a sense of vague power behind it. 

“ The fact is, one sees a lot of the other side of the 
artistic temperament, the shady side, in my trade.” 
His voice when he said “my trade” would have 
made any of his friends smile. For he was very 


A NEW NOTE. 


1 7 


much in love with his “ trade.” Perhaps that was 
one reason why, although he had been several days 
in the same house with his present companion, he 
had only just perceived the charm of her crinkly 
hair. 

“ Oh,” struck in the latter, who now began to see 
daylight, “ it must be so nice to be a journalist, and 
see all sorts of people, and know everything, especially 
to hear everything long before anybody else.” 

He smiled beamingly, and dropped his eye-glass. 
A more adroit speech could scarcely have been 
uttered, for in spite of epigrams he was an ingenuous 
boy, and he longed with an exceeding great longing 
for somebody to tell him that he was a man of note. 
As a matter of fact, he was a peer's son, but he 
believed himself to be a journalist, and the dream 
of his life, so far, was one day to edit a big London 
“ Daily.” The dreams of one's life do not as a rule 
make themselves realities, but his dream at any rate 
did him no harm, but rather good, since it kept him 
a good deal out of the mischief which peers' sons 
of nine-and-twenty find generally ready to hand. 

“Well, you know,” he said, leaning his elbows on 
his knees and looking up at her with quite an 
affectionate smile, “ I'm only at the start, — at least, I 
mean I only belong to one branch, — subleaders, you 
know, and some sorts of political articles and literary 
articles, and whipped-up social sketches and studies. 
The chief seems to catch on to these, he says I have 
a turn that way ; but of course it's only, as I say, one 
branch. Still, they pay me, you know, two guineas 
a column, — regular thing, you know, and that's not 
bad at the start.” 

He always took care to mention the payment, 

2 


i8 


A NEW NOTE. 


because he considered that that showed the ding- 
dong reality of his pretensions. It cleared him from 
the suspicions of amateurishness. Nothing hurt him 
so deeply as to be for a moment looked upon as 
an amateur. 

“ How nice ! ” said his companion, with a nod of her 
fair head. 

“ Well, it’s a pretty hard grind. Specially the short- 
hand. Shorthand is the most beastly stuff to get 
round. But you’re quite out of it without shorthand. 
Besides, I should never get a ‘ special/ you see, unless 
I can report.” 

“ But would you really like to go to places like — 
like those men one sees at tables taking down 
speeches and things ? They never look very nice, — 
I mean the men, — not quite clean, you know.” 

“ Oh, but that sort of shorthand reporting is the 
lowest rung of the ladder.” 

His companion had no knowledge of any of the 
rungs of the ladder in question, but she looked as if 
she quite believed it. 

“ At the same time, some of the biggest swells 
have begun that way.” 

“ No, really ? Have they ? But they aren’t really 
gentlemen, reporters, are they ? ” 

“ Every one is a gentleman nowadays ; but — well, 
they are not the sort of men for you to get talking to 
— or anything like that. My object in learning short- 
hand is to get a big correspondency one of these 
days. That brings one to the front a lot, you know. 
Besides, it’s a simply ripping experience ; but then, 
one must be well up in shorthand.” 

“ And how do you get up shorthand ? ” 

“ Oh, I have a chap coaching me, a first-rate chap. 


A NEW NOTE. 


19 


He seems to think I’ve rather a turn for it Curiously 
enough, he himself, though he’s a nailer at shorthand, 
could no more write three consecutive lines of decent 
English than he could fly. Odd, isn’t it? Poor 
beggar ! he’ll never do more than earn a bare liveli- 
hood by reporting.” 

“ I think,” said his companion, and she blushed a 
little, which made her look very pretty, “ I think it 
must be so awfully nice to be — clever and — and — all 
that. Now, your cousin, for instance, I think it is 

perfectly wonderful of her to — to ” 

“ To take up that line ? ” 

She nodded, and he laughed slightly. 

“ Well, I think it is even more perfectly wonderful 
that she should be allowed. Of course the world is 
coming on a good bit ; still, a man like my uncle 
doesn’t as a rule care to see his daughter going out 
to evening parties at ten pounds a night.” 

“ But she won’t do that, surely ? ” 

“ Well, no, not exactly,” and he laughed again at 
his companion’s widely-opened eyes ; “ but she’s going 
in for the whole business thoroughly, and if I know 
Victoria Leathley she’ll stick at nothing — nothing 
that will make her a big success.” 

“ She will be famous, won’t she ? ” 

“Well, I don’t know. Joachim thinks a lot of her 
playing, or says he does — I don’t. It’s a daring thing 
to say, of course, in the face of Joachim, but — we’ll 
see.” 

“ I do admire her so immensely.” She just glanced 
over at Victoria as she spoke. 

“ Hum ! well, she’s not pretty, you know, but she’s 
undeniably distinguished-looking, and she is enor- 
mously clever. Look here, you people don’t know how 


20 


A NEW NOTE. 


clever she is. As to her own people, her father is the 
only one who has the faintest glimmering of what 
Victoria really is. Of course the others are proud 
enough of her music and her talents, and her general 
power of picking herself out from the ruck, or at all 
events they pretend to be proud, but they no more 
understand her than they understand the other side of 
the moon’s surface.” 

“ How strange !” 

“ Do you think so ? Probably it would be stranger if 
they did,” added this young man, who occasionally had 
flashes of insight. “ Now — hullo ! shall I put down 
your cup ? ” 


t 


CHAPTER III. 


“ Ada,” said Victoria to the girl with the fair crinkly 
hair, whose name was Ada Barclay, “ I am going 
upstairs now to practise. Do you think you would 
care to come too ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ; I should , awfully.” 

Victoria smiled. 

“ Well, come along then,” she said quickly. She 
passed her hand as she said it through the other 
girl’s arm ; “ we sha’n’t have so very much time before 
dinner.” 

Ada Barclay went off at once. She was a young 
person possessed as yet of considerable capacity for 
enthusiasm. At this time Victoria Leathley was 
awakening a good deal of the latter. 

The two girls ran up the turret stairs very quickly 
to Victoria’s room. 

Victoria and her father inhabited that portion of 
the house known as the turret. The latter was not a 
turret. It was a nondescript excrescence in bricks 
and mortar tacked on to the south-west angle of the 
house. It owed its existence to Victoria’s great- 
grandfather, and embodied a style of architecture 
for which no known architect had ever been able to 
find a name. The word “ turret ” was, at all events, 
as applicable to it as any other. If the turret at 
Eastaston was an architectural monstrosity per se } 
no less than as an addition to a solid Jacobean 

ax 


22 


A NEW NOTE. 


house, it had an excuse for its existence in the fact 
that it contained one or two of the most charming 
rooms in the house. 

Victoria’s own beloved study, or music-room — for 
it was as much one as the other ; she called it the 
“ den ” herself — was a room which the architect, who- 
ever he may have been, had possibly desired should 
be an> octagon in shape. It was not an octagon in 
fact, because it had only six decided sides to it, 
though there were two undecided ones to make the 
whole effect more peculiar than symmetrical. The 
peculiarity was further accentuated by the windows 
being set in the two undecided sides. The windows 
were heavily mullioned and somewhat embayed, 
thereby providing space for the cosy window-seats, 
whence the inhabitant could overlook a wide stretch 
of green, undulating pasture. The windows, and the 
ceiling, which was diapered, were the best features 
of the room. 

One of the wide latticed panes stood open 
when Victoria and Miss Barclay entered. Fresh 
air, Victoria said, was one of her manias ; she 
liked to live in a hurricane, was how her family put 
it. Now, however, Victoria shut the window and 
poked the fire. 

Ada Barclay, meantime, stood looking out. She 
was watching the flush of the western sky, where 
the remains of a red sunset still lingered. The 
points of the firs in the new plantation stood 
up against the horizon like so many spear- 
heads of burnished gold from the reflex of the 
dying sun. 

Victoria came behind the younger girl. 

“ What a glorious sky ! ” she said ; “ but how short 


A NEW NOTE. 


23 


the days are growing. I shall have to light the 
candles.’’ 

She turned away as she spoke and lighted the 
candles on either side of the violin stand. When 
this was done the effect in the room was curious. 
The struggle between the light within and the light 
from without flung strange shadows up and down. 
Victoria, with her violin under her left arm, stood 
in the oasis of candlelight arranging some music 
on the upright stand. Apart from the space lighted 
by the candles, the remainder of the room seemed 
dimmer by contrast, but not too dim to have shown 
an onlooker that it harmonised well with its owner. 
It had indeed grown with and around its owner, and 
expressed her convictions as to what a room of the 
kind should be. 

Its decorative attributes expressed four component 
parts — books, pictures, music, and flowers ; upon 
these its decoration depended, not upon screens and 
hangings and rugs. Screens and hangings and rugs 
were not, in Victoria’s estimation, decoration, but 
furniture. They had their place accordingly, as such. 
In like manner, if the other pieces of furniture, the 
corner bookcases, for example, and Victoria’s writing- 
table, were beautiful bits of Sheraton’s work, they 
never for a moment conveyed to the mind any 
idea other than that they were there because of 
their usefulness. They were beautiful, certainly, 
because beauty is lovely everywhere ; and why have 
ugly furniture when that which is beautiful and 
appropriate is within reach ? Only they were furni- 
ture, nothing more. Victoria made you feel that. 
That was where the clearness of her artistic per- 
ception made itself apparent. Most people didn’t 


24 


A NEW NOTE. 


understand it : most people didn’t understand her ; 
but they did understand that somehow her room 
was different from every other person’s room. They 
were not quite sure if they liked it any more than 
many of them were quite sure if they liked her, 
especially if they happened to be persons who would 
have been glad to go and do likewise, if only they 
could manage to grasp how it was done. These 
people looked at Victoria’s room and thought it was 
very simple indeed. After all, Sheraton furniture is 
not unattainable if you have a moderate amount of 
money, and the imitations are really very good ; 
while a silver inkstand and blotter can be had any 
day. Old prints, too, can be got together and hung, 
as Victoria’s were hung, in straight rows. A Bech- 
stein piano and shoals of photographs of places and 
people — principally people — are not unknown adjuncts 
of modern life ; nevertheless, all these tolerably 
familiar objects got together in Victoria’s little turret- 
room did not somehow look nearly so charming in 
the rooms of other persons — perhaps because Victoria 
made her room, as she made most things in life, 
answer to her purpose, while the other persons made 
their purpose answer to their rooms. Or perhaps 
because Victoria was Victoria, and not the other 
persons. 

But when she used to boast, as she did frequently, 
that the den was a collection of odds and ends, that 
she never bought anything for it she could possibly 
help, and never, never, never bought anything because 
it happened to be “the fashion,” — well, the other 
persons didn’t believe her, that’s all ! Nevertheless 
it was true. And it was also true that, as she told 
everyone, everything in the room had a history 


A NEW NOTE. 


25 


attached to it. That perhaps was, partly, how it 
came to be such a home-y sort of abode. As 
to flowers, Victoria had them everywhere. Just 
now the room was full of white chrysanthemums. 
They stood about in pots, and jars, and glasses, 
on the writing-table and the mantelpiece, and in 
the corners, the soft, feathery petals showing here 
and there against red leaves of trailing Virginia 
creeper. 

That was how the room looked, as the candle- 
light, and the red glow of the fire, and the 
fading mistiness of the twilight blended together 
in a sort of incongruous harmony. Any one who 
knew Victoria would have seen scraps of her special 
belongings cropping up. A treatise on “ violin- 
bowing ” lay open on the writing-table, among the 
silver things which shone in the fire’s glow ; a score 
of violin music, fingered in pencil by the great 
Joachim himself, fluttered on the open piano ; across 
the wall, above the mantel-board, in a long line was 
a set of photographs of all the great composers, 
from Gluck to Wagner, with Beethoven in the 
centre of the line. As to other photographs, they 
stood about in every variety of frame, and some 
even without frames. In one corner, too, there 
were a couple of tennis rackets and a set of golf 
sticks — but these were dusty. 

Victoria tuned her violin rapidly, and set to work 
at one of Bach’s solos. Ada Barclay curled herself 
up in a corner of the window-seat, her fair head 
silhouetting itself against the pale glow of the fading 
light, reflected on the lattice panes. The Bach solo 
had proceeded for about three bars, when, in the 
middle of a strong wailing note from the violin, 


2 6 


A NEW NOTE. 


an equally strong and wailing note mingled with it, 
coming in the direction of the door. Victoria 
lowered her violin and opened the door. 

“ Come in,” she said, addressing someone outside. 
Apparently the invitation met with but a hesitating 
response, for — 

“Come in and be quick about it,” said Victoria 

again. 

She was addressing William the Conqueror, who 
paused as she spoke — paused with superb un- 
concern. His sombre, amber-coloured eyes looked 
past her in contemplative disdain for a moment. 
Then he looked behind with deliberateness at the 
turret stairs, bringing his head after another moment 
round once more to face his mistress. After that 
he put one paw forward slowly, and moved his body 
in advance about the eighth of an inch. 

Victoria stamped her foot. 

" W ill you come in ? ” She raised her voice as 
she said it, and stooped to expedite his entrance. 

Forthwith he skipped across her path with incon- 
tinent and elusive rapidity, landing himself in the 
middle of the room. There he stood still, and gazed 
at Miss Barclay, who laughed with considerable relish. 

Victoria shut the door with a small bang, whereat 
Miss Barclay laughed still more. 

“You are his slave,” she said, “and it is so lovely 
to think of its being you/' 

“ I am a fool,” said Victoria, and then she too 
laughed. 

“ I should not have thought you could be so weak,” 
pursued the other, and she smiled at Victoria as she 
said it, but it was a smile more of admiration than 
anything else. 


A NEW NOTE. 


2 ? 


“ I ! ” exclaimed Victoria, — “ I ! ” She gave the 
screw of her bow an impatient twist. “ My dear child, 
I’m the weakest creature living, now and then.” 

The younger girl looked serenely incredulous. 

Victoria lifted her fiddle to her shoulder once 
more, and the Bach solo began again. 

William the Conqueror, after a yawn or two of 
ostentatious boredom, selected with care the most 
comfortable chair he could find, and, having rolled 
himself into a black ball, went to sleep on his head. 

Twilight deepened into shadow, till the candle- 
light in the room had matters all its own way. 
Victoria worked hard, though, to the listener in the 
window, it seemed to be an easy task which lay 
beneath the player’s fingers. The clock had struck 
seven before Victoria once more lowered her violin 
and turned to her companion. 

“ Ah !” she said, stretching out her right arm, “ Bach 
is as tough as nails ; but what a study after all ! 
You have been very patient, Ada, but I believe you 
have been asleep.” 

But if Miss Barclay had been asleep, she was 
wide awake enough now to repel the assertion with 
indignant haste. 

“ Indeed I have been nothing of the kind ! ” she 
exclaimed ; “ I have been quite enchanted.” 

“ What a pretty speech ! Well, you shall have 
something for pleasure now — your pleasure and 
mine.” 

She raised the fiddle again and drew the bow 
across the strings musingly, letting her fingers 
wander into a little roulade of notes in descending 
intervals. Almost imperceptibly they glided into 
distinct harmonies, until presently a fragment of 


28 


A NEW NOTE. 


Vieuxtemps’ began to make itself heard. The 
notes grew and strengthened softly until the whole 
“ Romance ” was complete in every part. Victoria 
played from memory, and her eyes were lifted 
upwards slightly, and looked darker even than their 
wont. At the close, after the strings under her 
hand had literally quivered into silence, she laid 
her violin in its case and went over to the window 
beside her friend. The latter turned her fair head 
towards Victoria and looked up in her face. Victoria 
put her hand on the girl’s shoulder and smiled 
down upon her, one of the rare smiles kept for very 
special people; but as the younger girl met it she 
flushed a little, even in the shadow. 

“Why, what an impressionable child it is!” said 
Victoria, smiling more broadly. 

Ada Barclay glanced down shyly. 

“ I d — d — don’t know how you do it, for,” she 
stammered confusedly, “you seem t — to hate all 
that sort of thing.” 

Victoria’s eyes twinkled. 

“ What sort of thing ? ” she said ruthlessly. 

“ Oh — sentiment, and — romance, and — all that sort 
of thing.” She laughed, but it was an apolo- 
getic laugh, and she kept her eyes fixed on the 
blind-cord, which she was twisting into hard knots. 

Victoria looked still more amused. 

“ Well, a good deal depends on what you mean 
by sentiment and romance, and — er — all that sort 
of thing,” she said coolly. “ If you mean by it 
that I get a decent tone out of the fiddle — well, 
perhaps I do, but then that is technique, my dear girl.” 

The younger girl tossed her head back with an 
odd little gesture. 


A NEW NOTE. 


29 


" I don’t believe it,” she said intrepidly ; “ it isn't 
technique, at least not altogether. There’s some- 
thing behind — there must , you know.” 

“ There is” said Victoria quickly, “ only — one 

can’t talk about it ” She stopped abruptly and 

sat down on the window-seat beside her companion. 

“ So I am a monster of coldness, Ada ? ” The 
tone of her voice changed as she spoke, and took 
a faint sarcastic inflexion, but she flung one arm 
round Ada Barclay’s shoulder, thinking as she did 
so how pretty the fair crinkly head was. 

“No,” was the response, “no, no, but — oh! you 
know what I mean. I mean you don’t like any- 
one to care for you, or — or — that , you know.” 

Victoria gave the speaker a little shake. The 
latter had, it was evident, covered herself with 
confusion in the utterance of this speech. 

“You baby!” said Victoria laughing. But she 
was not altogether pleased at the revelation which 
her friend’s words implied. 

“ Don’t be evasive, Ada ; you mean simply that 
I dislike love-making, or being made love to, and 
so on.” She shrugged her shoulders. “ Well, I 
suppose that sort of thing is very well in its way. 
Probably it’s necessary, possibly it’s agreeable. To 
some persons, I have no doubt, it is — very agreeable.” 

“ Everybody ” struck in Miss Barclay timidly, “falls 
in love sometimes, don’t you think ? ” 

“Do they? They think they do, which — does 
as well, you say — doubtless. My dear Ada, love 
or what you call love, owes a great deal to poets 
and artists. They have transfigured it for their 
own purposes. I suppose they had a perfect right 
to do so, but, unfortunately, it has been done at 


30 


A NEW NOTE. 


the sacrifice of actuality. As a matter of fact, in 
this world, love, or that particular sort of physical 
passion which has so largely monopolised the name 
of love, is a very pliable quality. You see, it depends 
for its existence on perfectly commonplace causes 
— physical, mental, and psychological causes. As 
to this ‘ love ’ enduring, as poets say it does, — my 
darling child, it's the most flagrantly fickle thing 
in human life. ,> 

“ Then,” interrupted the other point blank, “ no- 
body ought to care for anybody?” 

Victoria smiled. 

“ Oh, care if you like, but don't, for Heaven's sake, 
break your heart over the business. Keep it in its 
true proportion — if you can. The amusing part of 
it is that he, or she, always will have it that their 
sudden admiration is — this time — undying devotion. 
And the dear good creatures run the same gamut 
every time. 

“ Don’t be horrid ! ” said Ada Barclay suddenly. 

Victoria's dark eyes softened. 

“ Am I horrid? Well, one is tempted sometimes 
to be just detestable. After all, it’s better to be 
‘ horrid ’ than twaddly. Oh, good gracious ! what 
a nation of twaddlers we are ! And the greatest of 
all twaddle is, that we, English men and women, 
marry — for love.” 

“ But we — I mean they, do!” and the conviction 
in her voice was so full and perfect and profound 
that Victoria sat back and laughed for three 
minutes. 

“ Ada, I am exhausted ; you are a fine example 
of the efficacy of preaching as a method of carrying 
conviction to the mind of another. The second 


A NEW NOTE. 3 1 

bell went five minutes ago. Where shall we be at 
dinner-time ? ” 

“Dinner, — I hate dinner!” 

“ For shame, Ada.” 

“ It’s such a bore,” added the latter with depre- 
cation. 

“It is the noblest institution of the British 
constitution. We may love, we must dine. 
Dinner — it divides the morning and the evening ; 
it is the central pivot of existence. Dinner — 
blessed sound ! All is lost, but — dinner. Come 
what may, but let us dine, clothed and in our 
right minds (though this is a detail) at eight. It 
is so nice to know that if, to-morrow, we die, to- 
day at all events we can still dine.” 

She stood up and pulled Ada Barclay up with 
her. 

“ Ada, you force me to be rude. In plain English, 
darling, go and dress for dinner.” 

Ada Barclay drew closer to her with a shy little 
caressing gesture. 

“ When you talk like that,” she said, and she 
smiled wistfully, “you— you bother me.” 

Victoria laughed wickedly. 

“ Ada, when you talk like that you refresh me.” 

The younger girl turned away suddenly. 

Victoria’s face changed, and she put out her 
hands and drew her friend back again close to 
her. 

“You’re a little goose” — the words were rude 
but the voice was not. “ Did you ever hear of 
letting off steam? Yes? Speech is given as the 
valve, the safety-valve.” 

The face looking into hers cleared. 


3 * 


A NEW tfOTE. 


“ Then you didn’t mean it ? ” she said quickly. 

Victoria smiled more broadly. 

“ About — er — love,” added the speaker. She 
flushed a little. 

“ Love ! ” echoed Victoria. She caught her friend’s 
hands and swung them to and fro, laughing a little. 
“ Love, my child, is a disease, which is not generally 
considered fatal. It lasts, sometimes, six months, 
but it has been known to last a much shorter 
time. Very rare instances are recorded in which 
it lasts longer. Many remedies are suggested, 
but marriage generally is allowed to be the most 
efficacious.” 

She drew a long breath and stopped. 

“ There , Ada ! Oh, don’t laugh at the superior 
wisdom of your elders, dear ! ” 

Ada Barclay looked full into the delicate smiling 
face. 

K You” she said calmly — “you will care awjully 
for some one some day.” 

Victoria turned on her heel. 

“ God forbid ! ” she said quickly, under her breath. 

Ada Barclay went out of the room — smiling. 


CHAPTER IV. 


“ I SAY, Keppel, who’s the chap with the hair ? ” 

“ Oh, that’s Loevio. He’s Victoria’s chap, you 
know.” 

“ Victoria’s chap ! what do you mean ? ” Jerry 
Annesley frowned. 

“ I mean he’s her singin’ chap. He’s a new 
light, at least he’s going to be a new light one 
of these days, and Victoria has got him down to 
sing at the Institute.” 

Annesley bestowed no more thought on the “ chap 
with the hair.” At that moment his own position 
occupied his mind very fully, and he was not one 
of those persons who can easily entertain more 
than one absorbing thought at one and the same 
time. 

Just then he was considering whether, in view 
of what had passed between Victoria and himself, 
he ought to stay any longer at Eastaston. Certain 
vague notions, derived in part from the few novels 
he had ever read, led him to think that it was his 
duty under the circumstances to relieve Victoria of 
the burden of his bodily presence. At the same 
time it seemed to him that his case was not quite 
analogous to those of which he had read. The 
revelation of his feelings to Victoria that day had 
scarcely been a revelation in the accurate sense of 
the word. For he knew that during the past 


34 


A NEW NOTE. 


few years she had been more or less acquainted 
with their state. Nor was it at all likely that 
his continued presence in the house would disturb 
the even tenor of her ways or thoughts in any 
degree. He wished he could flatter himself that 
it would. Had such been the case, the future 
would have looked more hopeful. But he could 
not lay even this much comfort to his soul. On 
the contrary, the perfectly immovable cheerful- 
ness which she invariably displayed towards him 
showed not the faintest sign of alteration. 

Taking all this into consideration, he came to 
the conclusion that further sacrifice was not required 
of him. It would have been a sacrifice on his part 
to have cut short his visit — indeed, a considerable 
sacrifice, to rob himself of the crumb of pleasure 
afforded in being at all events in the same house 
with her. He decided that he would stay on as 
if nothing had happened. His visit would not 
last many days longer. He had to go over to 
Ireland, and the Leathleys were going up to town for 
Victoria’s forthcoming debut . While his visit lasted 
he would keep out of her way, or rather, keep his 
feelings out of her way, as much as possible. 

When he had settled all this with himself he felt 
better. There are temperaments which find it 
absolutely necessary to fight out everything to the 
end. To such, there is no possibility of facile dis- 
placement of questions which come up to be 
answered. 

If this is a blessing, it is perhaps, on the whole, 
a blessing in disguise. But whether it be a bless- 
ing open or disguised, it tends to the production 
of certain qualities of strength in the character. 


i 


A NEW NOTE. 


35 


It tends, too, to be hard upon itself : but a strong 
character is invariably its own most pitiless judge. 
On the other hand, it is often unduly lenient towards 
others, which is its weakness. But no human 
character is free from weakness. With some, the 
weakness comes nearer to being strength than with 
others, that is all. 

Annesley ’s decision was not a little influenced by 
Victoria’s attitude towards him that day at dinner. 

It happened that Mrs. Edmund Leathley had 
drawn lots, and Victoria had fallen to Annesley. 
He had only been made aware of this at the last 
moment, and, as he was not a man of quick resource, 
no method of alteration occurred to him. Besides, 
Victoria was late, only appearing in fact as every- 
body else was going in. When she did arrive, very 
hurried and breathless, a glance told her how things 
were. She just (apparently) rushed up to Annesley. 

“Come on, Jerry; Gertrude is looking daggers 
at me.” 

And he became aware that Victoria’s hand was 
lying on his arm, and that he was being swept 
along, and that everything was to go on as usual. 

“ I am suffering agonies of remorse,” she said to 
him, in her rapid, rather cold accents, as she unfolded 
her napkin, “ about my friend Mr. Loevio. I for- 
got completely that he was coming to-day, and I 
went upstairs directly after tea to practise, and I 
imagine the wretched man has been left to the tender 
mercies of Gertrude, who didn’t want to have him to 
stay.” 

“ He probably got on all right,” was all that 
Annesley could find to say. 

Victoria shook her head. 


36 


A NEW NOTE. 


“Nothing gets along all right if it begins by going 
wrong ; besides, I know Gertrude. Don't imagine 
I mean to imply she’s not a dear girl, for she is, but 
she’s much dearer if she happens to like you, 
that’s all.” 

“ He seems all right,” said Jerry stolidly. 

“ My dear Jerry, what would you have him seem ? 
Nevertheless, I am put out about it. No, thank you” 
(to the butler). “ I wish somebody would invent 
a perfect-memory system, a thing one could get 
at the stores — at a low price — to be used just when 
you want it.” 

“But then,” struck in the young man who had 
been talking to Miss Barclay at tea, and whose 
name was Conway Keppel, “you’d forget when to 
use it, and then, — why, then you’d be where you 
are, don’t you see ? ” 

“ I see you,” said Victoria coolly, while Annesley 
wondered what the deuce it was all about. 

Mr. Keppel laughed. 

“You don’t appreciate your privileges, as the 
parsons say,” he retorted. 

Victoria (who hated most kinds of fish) was lean- 
ing back in her chair crumbling her bread 

“ I wish,” she said to Jerry, and she lowered her 
voice a good deal, “ that people would stick to their 
own conversations, and not break in upon those of 
others.” 

“ I never do,” said Annesley simply. 

“ No, no, you are admirable.” 

Annesley winced. 

“ What’s the chap with the hair going to sing ? ” 
he said abruptly, in a wild and vague desire to get 
into shallow waters. 


A NEW NOTE. 


37 


Victoria’s little, cold, dark eyes shot a look at him. 

“ I don’t think I know yet. We have left a place 
for him to choose. The whole affair is quite informal 
— rather harum-scarum, I think. But now we have 
the Institute I suppose we ought to make use of it. 
Gertrude is under the impression — I believe she has 
got it from Mr. Gladstone — that the regeneration 
of England is to be accomplished by means of village 
institutes. I’m sure I hope it will. Gertrude has; 
a large faith. A large faith is one of the most 
comfortable cushions I know : Lean on me, my dear, 
it always seems to say ; and it is so sustaining, if 
not invigorating, when one does lean. At the same 
time, I’m open to conviction, I’m always open to 
conviction, and improvement is the order of the day.” 

“ Eh ? ” said Mr. Keppel, catching the last sentence. 
“ Improvement ? Oh, hang improvement ! I should 
like to start a Society for the Disimprovement of 
the Human Race.” He put up his eyeglass and 
poised his fork over his plate. “ The Disimprove- 
ment of the Human Race,” he repeated impressively. 

“ Go on,” said Victoria, “ we await your revelation.” 

Nobody shall belong to it who has ever done $ 
ever will do, or ever wants to do, anything ‘ useful.’ ” 

Jerry Annesley laughed. 

“ My dear old boy, open it to the public by all 
means. You’ll get swarms of members.” 

“No Irish,” returned the other with gravity, — “no 
Irish need apply.” 

Annesley laughed still more. 

“Jerry,” said Victoria, “ that was one for you.” 

“ It is the New Journalism,” said Annesley, with, 
sudden inspiration. 

Mr. Keppel paused. 


38 


A NEW NOTE. 


“ Where was I ? ” he said to Victoria. 

“ That is what we are dying to know.” 

“Oh, yes — the improvement of the human race 
has failed ; you can't deny that ? ” 

“ I never deny anything,” protested Victoria, “ not 
even absurdity.” 

“ I do not expect to meet with approval, and I 
look for no reward ; no reformer ever does.” 

“ Virtue,” said Victoria, “ I have heard, is its own 
reward. I must admit that I always inclined to 
think it was a shabby one. I daresay I could find 
a reformer or two who would share my opinion.” 

“It strikes me,” put in Jerry, “that we are begin- 
ning to shoot pretty wide.” 

“ Not at all,” said Victoria ; “everything helps — 
in the disimprovement of the human race.” 

She looked at Conway Keppel. 

“ Well, why don’t you go on ? ” 

“ I will, in a moment, but it’s difficult to elaborate 
on the spot. But you admit that improvement has 
failed ? ” 

“ I fancy I have heard that before somewhere,” 
said Victoria ; “ still, I am willing to admit that 
the results are not — brilliant, if that is what you 
want.” 

“ Precisely ; then, I say, try the other way round.” 

“ I’m equally willing to agree to that, only you 
must give us a carte de pays .” 

“ Nobody shall attempt to do his or her duty.” 

“ Looks easy, anyhow,” said Annesley sotto voce. 

“ Do you think so ? ” returned the author of the 
scheme. “You are mistaken. The chief difficulty 
will be to get out of people’s heads the hazy con- 
viction (it is hazy, but it’s there all the same) that 


A NEW NOTE. 


39 


they ought to do ‘ their duty.' In my Society no- 
body must think that they ‘ ought * to do anything. 
That belief has engendered more envy, malice 
hatred, and all uncharitableness than, roughly speak- 
ing, any other factor in human life. Moreover, 
duty is a monster, a hideous Moloch, in whose 
revolting service more victims have been sacrificed 
than would people myriads of happy worlds ” 

He paused abruptly, because something “ on toast ” 
had just come round. When his faculties became 
once more disengaged he perceived that Victoria 
was laughing. 

‘It is only Jerry,” she explained; “he merely 
wants to know if you intend to leave off shaving 
and wear ‘ reach-me-downs.’ ” 

Mr. Keppel was pardonably annoyed. His toilet 
was a business of life too serious and too perfect to 
bear ribald jeers. 

“ I think,” he said, with a composure that did 
him credit, “ we were discussing the mental and 
moral aspects ” (the employment of alliterative 
adjectives always afforded him pleasure), “ the mental 
and moral aspects of — of — er ” 

“ Yes ? ” said Victoria innocently. 

“ Fire away, old boy,” said Annesley. 

“ The question.” 

“ Bravo ! ” exclaimed Victoria. 

“ Good old question,” said Annesley simultaneously. 

“ Oh, look here,” said the speaker with a sudden 
change of tone, “ when you both drop down on a 
fellow like this, there’s no earthly use in talking 
rationally/’ 

“ Then,” said Victoria, with malice aforethought^ 
“you did contemplate talking rationally? ” 


40 


A NEW NOTE. 


* No, I didn't. Talking rationally means, accord- 
ing to law, talking nonsense.” 

“Oh!” murmured Victoria. “This what d’ye 
call it, this mental and moral question, is getting us 
out of our depth.” 

Conway Keppel grinned. 

“ You give me time — you give me time to elaborate ; 
you see, if I don’t — er — don’t put a head on it.” 

“ I am exceedingly obliged to you,” returned 
Victoria, “for your kind offer, and also for your 
sudden relapse into English as she is spoke. I shall 
look forward to seeing the head put on. At the 
same time, let me, as a friend, remind you of what 
the World (I mean the newspaper, not the universe) 
calls your ‘social duties.’ I have no doubt that a 
mind like yours is capable of advising Mrs. St. John 
as to the easiest and most reliable method of* Banting,’ 
and of elaborating — is that the word ? — at the same 
time the Disimprovement of the Human Race. If 
you can persuade Mrs. St. John to ‘ Bant ’ you will 
be capable even of the improvement of ” 

“ Mrs. St. John,” interrupted Conway Keppel in 
a shameless whisper into the speaker’s ear, “ is eating 
ice pudding like a steam-engine.” 

“Jerry,” said Victoria, “Conway declares that 
steam-engines are fed with ice pudding.” 

* He’s overdoing it,” said Annesley in the same 
tone ; “ all those columns and paragraphs are going 
in on his brain. I say, Keppel ! hi, Keppel ! ” 

But Mr. Keppel had returned to his “ social duties.” 

“I want you, Jerry,” said Victoria, “when we go 
away, to look after Mr. Loevio for me. Get Conway 
Keppel to talk to him, if you can. Remember he 
won’t care to be shrieked at about ‘ short-horns ’ or 


A NEW NOTE. 


4 * 


‘Polled Angus/ and I don't suppose he's deeply 
devoted to the drainage question. Remember he’s 
an artist, and he's never been here before." 

Annesley looked at her. 

“ All right," he said with a smile ; “ I'll have an 
eye to him, never you fear. Where on earth did you 
pick him up ? " 

Victoria looked amused. 

“ I didn't pick him up at all. He's one of the new 
tenors, and an actor. People know nothing about 
him yet, but they will know one of these days. 
Ford found him, and Ford is going to " 

“ Boom him ? " said Jerry. 

Victoria nodded, and laughed. 

“ It's only while you’re in here ; I can look after 
him myself afterwards. I wonder, by the way, if he 
plays billiards." 

“ I should rather say so," returned Annesley drily ; 
“ his hair looks like it." 

“Nonsense!" said Victoria ; “his hair is magnificent." 

Annesley looked straight in front of him. 

“Jerry,” said Victoria, after a pause, “‘the thoughts 
of youth are long, long thoughts.' " 

“Yes," said Annesley ; “ I was thinking of music.” 

“ Music ! " echoed Victoria. 

“Yes,” said Annesley dreamily. ‘“Get your hair 

cut / 9 

“You are flippant,” said Victoria, “and you are 
vulgar. I'm glad it is time for me to go.” 


CHAPTER V. 


When Mr. Louis Loevio went up to his room that 
night, he could tell himself that he was having a 
“ fairish ” time of it. Altogether, this sort of life 
fell in admirably with Mr. Louis Loevio’s ideas 
as to the pleasures of existence. It is true that 
the first moments of his arrival had not been quite 
— well, quite rapturous. Victoria had spoken truly 
when she said that her sister-in-law, although a 
dear girl, was apt to be a good deal “ dearer ” if 
she happened to like you. 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley was one of those persons 
whom a beneficent Providence has blessed with what 
are popularly known as very “ clear views.” She 
had clear views on every subject. Clear views form, 
no doubt, an admirable equipment for the conduct 
of life. At the same time, it is doubtful whether 
they tend to endear their possessors to less for- 
tunately gifted humanity. 

Regarding Mr. Louis Loevio, Mrs. Edmund Leath- 
ley’s clear views left her in no manner of doubt. 
She believed that the entertainment of a professional 
singer and actor — of small reputation — for two days 
at Eastaston was a quite unnecessary and over- 
strained interpretation of the laws of hospitality. 

“The man,” she had said, “could come and sing, 
and put up at the ‘ Jolly Ploughman ’ (Mrs. Bridge 
will make him most comfortable), and go back to 


A NEW NOTE. 43 

where he came from. At least, that is what Edmund 
and I think.” 

She always said “Edmund and I,” because her 
irreproachably clear views pointed out to her that 
man and wife should be one in opinions as well as in 
law. Victoria had once or twice, when Gertrude's 
clear views got on her nerves, which clear views 
have a tendency to do, felt strongly tempted to 
reveal to her sister-in-law that Edmund Leathley 
had no opinion on any subject except what she, 
Gertrude, told him to have ; but happily Victoria 
had remembered herself in time, and was enabled 
to avoid making an enemy for life. 

However, Mrs. Edmund Leathley had been over- 
ruled by her father-in-law and by Victoria respecting 
Mr. Loevio’s entertainment. She had submitted to 
the overruling with outward and visible grace, 
because her inward and admirable common sense 
told her that she was not exactly mistress of 
Eastaston yet, and that Mr. Leathley’s regard 
for his youngest daughter and her wishes might, 
in the event of hers clashing with them, lead him 
to persuade Victoria to take possession once more 
of all those glories of chatelaineship which, at her 
eldest brother’s marriage, she had yielded up freely 
with a sense of relief to her eldest brother’s wife. 

Nevertheless, no power on earth could induce Mrs. 
Edmund Leathley to receive Mr. Louis Loevio with 
outward and visible favour. She gave him bed 
and board, she was prepared by-and-bye to give 
him a cheque ; farther than that she told herself 
she was not bound to go. As a matter of fact, 
farther than that she did go, for she gave him 
(in five minutes) her clear views about himselt 


44 


A NEW NOTE. 


Mr. Louis Loevio was not likely to forget the first 
half-hour of his stay at Eastaston, even if it must 
be admitted that, up to this, he had not been in 
the habit of paying visits in country houses. 

Professional singers of small reputation may 
all the same have feelings which can be hurt. To 
do Mrs. Edmund Leathley justice, her clear views 
did not include such a possibility, any more than 
they included the possibility of acting in such a 
case herself as an instrument of torture. 

But the first half-hour was succeeded by 
pleasanter experiences. It was succeeded by such 
a dinner as Mr. Loevio had not enjoyed half 
a dozen times in his life, for the Arts, in their 
obscurer dwelling-places, do not, as a rule, include — 
gastronomy. 

Dinner was followed by the society of Victoria 
and her friend, the very young lady with the fair 
crinkly hair ; and the latter, in due course, by the 
smoking-room, where he had had the best cigar 
he ever put between his lips, and a whisky and 
soda which would make any man feel good and 
noble and inclined to cry over his past life. In- 
deed, he found it by no means easy to decide which 
he had enjoyed most in the evening’s pleasure, but 
on the whole he was inclined to give the preference 
to the young ladies. 

His fine blue eyes grew moist as he thought 
of them especially of Miss Barclay. 

“ Lor’ ! ” he said to himself — for he was English, 
remarkably English, when he was alone, in every- 
thing except his name and the length of his hair, 
" those tip-top high-flying girls are the thing for 
me — make things hum, ’pon my soul. There’s nothing 


A NEW NOTE. 


45 


like high breeding ; hang me if it ain't free and 
easy, and yet it ain't, all out! That innocent-look- 
ing one now, with the fair hair" — he sighed re- 
gretfully. 

He was sitting on the edge of his bed in his shirt 
sleeves, his head sentimentally inclined to one side. 

“ They're a rum lot anyhow, but I suit 'em nicely. 
Miss Leathley, 'pon my soul, made more of me 
than she did of the nob with the eyeglass, a long 
sight more. She's a daisy anyhow, and a first-rate 
artist — I wish I knew as much about it, that's all 
I can say. Though what the devil does she want 
plaguing about Art, with a father who might be 
a lord if he liked, any day ! She's an out-and-out 
thoroughbred, too. I'm not sure if I don't like 
her better than the innocent-looking one, — more 
grit in her, and, if she can't hold a candle to the 
young one in looks, she’s got a damned haughty 
toss-my-head-in-the-air look about her that fetches 
me like wax. And, by the living Jingo, she has a 
clipping figure, and, in a woman, give me figure ! 

“ Hang it all," — his eyes grew sullen, — “ I’ll go to 
bed ; it’s the shortest cut to to-morrow." 

Yet, before he blew out his candle, he looked 
round his room once or twice again. 

Even in the nervousness of his arrival, and being 
asked for his keys, the room had been a surprise 
to him. He had had an idea that those persons 
whom he was pleased to call “ nobs " occupied 
bedrooms in their own homes something similar to 
the best bedrooms at such hotels as the M^tropole 
and the Continental. He had been prepared for 
an apartment of dizzy loftiness, for ceilings all 
cornices and stucco, for a good deal of gilding, 


46 


A NEW NOTE. 


and for marble — everywhere. This old-fashioned 
room was a revelation, with its low ceiling, and 
its clear flowery-patterned wall-paper, and its clear 
flowery-patterned chintz hangings, and its Kidder- 
minster carpet, and its plain solid mahogany furni- 
ture, and not so much as a marble-topped anything 
within its four walls. He looked at the queer 
sporting pictures on the wall, old prints in very 
high colouring and very black frames, and at the 
serge-covered table at the foot of his bed, furnished 
with every requisite material for writing his letters,, 
to reassure himself of his whereabouts. 

u Eastaston Manor , 

Eastaston , 

Berks," 

was stamped upon the note-paper in the letter- 
case ; he had read it himself, twice. There was no 
mistake about that, nor about the elaborate pre- 
parations for his bath. These were, to him, sign- 
manuals of his sojourn in this strange abode. 

He found it very pleasant even in its strangeness. 
But before he went to sleep he made up his mind 
that when he went back to London he would take 
some lessons at a shooting-gallery, and buy a book 
about small game. The girl with the pretty crinkly 
hair had thrown him into profound confusion by a 
remark about the “ guns,” and when he discovered 
that his host good-naturedly meant to give him 
a bit of pheasant-shooting on the morrow he knew 
there would be nothing for it but to develope a 
sore throat before morning. 

On the following morning, accordingly, he told 


A NEW NOTE. 


47 


Victoria that he had in fact felt his throat un- 
comfortable the night before, and that his feelings 
— his feelings could be better imagined than expressed 
at the thought of disappointing his audience. He 
said it with tears, or what looked like them, in his 
eyes. His voice was even a little hoarse, no doubt 
from the mingled disturbance of his feelings and 
his vocal cords. 

“ There is but one remedy; ” he said sadly ; “ I 
must chain myself to the house — I must chain my- 
self to the house.” 

His best conversation, like his best clothes, was 
apt to be a trifle florid. He had a preference too 
for the Italian model, consequent, perhaps, on a 
year at Milan and Florence. His accent on these 
occasions had a faint foreign intonation. The 
makings of a superlatively clever actor existed in 
Loevio. When he spoke with that faint foreign 
accent it became (for the time) his own. 

Victoria was quite sympathetic. It was too bad. 
She was so sorry. Did he think he had caught 
cold ? Could Mrs. Tibbs do anything ? Mrs. Tibbs 
had a black currant jelly recipe that had never been 
known to fail ! 

Loevio behaved beautifully. He sat in the library 
the whole livelong day with his feet on the fender i 
he refused pressed beef and game pie at luncheon ; 
he even swallowed Mrs. Tibbs’ black currant jelly 
recipe, and swallowed it so scalding hot that he 
felt as if not only the skin of his throat, but the 
skin of other parts, which need not be particularised, 
had been temporarily removed. He only drew the 
line at Mrs. Tibbs’ proposal of a flannel bandage 
i*ound his neck. He told her, with more bows and 


48 


A NEW NOTE. 


flourishes than that excellent housekeeper had ever 
received during the whole course of her administra- 
tion, that Sir Morel Mackenzie had absolutely 
forbidden him under any circumstances to touch 
his neck with flannel. 

Towards evening he declared himself better. He 
said it was all Mrs. Tibbs' jelly, and he gave 
her a sovereign in the library before he went to 
dress for dinner. While he was dressing he felt 
that, on the whole, it had been an expensive sore 
throat. But he was better — better at dinner, and 
better still after dinner. There was now no doubt 
but that he would be able to fulfil his engage- 
ment, and he would run over the songs early on 
the following morning. Meantime, he was all peni- 
tence at his own “ unpardonable stupidity ” in getting 
his “wretched throat upset again." 

“ But it is our penalty," he said to Miss Barclay, 
“ the penalty of a tenor voice. Tenor voices are 
so much quicksilver — a change of temperature and 
your upper register is done for.' 

Miss Barclay smiled upon him with bewitching 
good faith. 

“ With me," he said, and he felt desperately senti- 
mental as he spoke, “matters are singularly un- 
fortunate. Only last year Morel Mackenzie said 
to me, ‘ My dear Loevio, your throat must be your 
constant care — your constant care. It is a hard 
thing to tell a man whose throat is his stock-in-trade, 
but it is for your own good. If you don't take 
care of it your throat will go.' It spoils one's life 
a bit being told a thing like that, but there ! " — he 
shrugged his shoulders very slightly — “life is not 
for play, at least it is not for play to us players 


A NEW NOTE. 


49 


whose work is to play to you. If my throat went 
I should not care to live ; what should I have to 
live for ? what should I have to live on ? Nothing.” 

He spread out his hands, and then he pushed up 
his hair. He had a quantity of rich auburn hair, 
theatrically arranged and disposed in effective and 
very natural waviness. He was, beyond question, 
an exceedingly handsome man, although, beyond 
question, the doom of tenor singers — obesity — would 
in middle age overtake him. At present, however, 
he was graceful and — plump. He could still look 
sentimental and look well. In moments like this, 
when he had a pretty girl to look at him and to 
listen to him, he believed in himself, although he 
had seen Sir Morel Mackenzie once in his life — in a 
box at Covent Garden Theatre. But with a young 
girl, or with any woman, young or old, a pathetic 
story about yourself leads to the best results. And 
Miss Barclay was so young and so pretty, and so 
— Loevio thought how good a thing it was to be 
a “ nob,” and have such girls as these to play with. 
He sighed with such genuine regret at the thought 
of certain impossibilities that Ada Barclay felt quite 
interested in him, and really vexed with herself 
because she could not honestly come to the con- 
clusion that he was quite a gentleman. 

“You must not take too gloomy a view,” she 
said with her bright honest smile. “After all, the 
worst doesn’t always happen, does it ? It would 
be too dreadful, you know, if it did.” 

He smiled pathetically, and shook his auburn 
head. 

“ Ah, if I were a beautiful young girl like you 
nothing could be gloomy!” 


4 


A NEW NOTE. 


50 


Miss Barclay grew a little pink. She was 
scarcely used to men who called her a beautiful 
young girl to her face, and the experience was not 
altogether pleasing. Nevertheless, on the whole he 
got on very well, and about his singing there could 
be no two opinions. Even Mrs. Edmund Leathley’s 
clear views quite approved of his singing. 

When he came to run over the songs on the 
following morning, he expressed to Victoria a great 
desire to sing Spohr’s most lovely ballad “ The 
Maiden and the Bird ” — with, he added insinu- 
atingly, the accompaniment that included a violin 
obligato, which (he trusted) she would consent to 

play : 

Victoria was not quite sure about it. 

“ I fancy/’ she said, “ that it will be quite over 
their heads.” 

Loevio looked inimitably grave. 

“Ah ! ” he exclaimed, “ Art should seek to elevate, 
to ennoble.” 

It may have been the enunciation oi this Irre- 
proachable sentiment, or his persistence, which 
was gentle and continuous, or Victoria’s own 
intense appreciation of the song, to which her 
violin obligato, even in “ running over it,” con- 
tributed not a little — but he had his way. 


CHAPTER VI. 


The Institute at Eastaston was a small red-brick 
building ; designed after one of the most approved 
models in modern architecture, namely, that of the 
(supposed) English farmhouse of a century or two 
ago. In spite of its newness, some wistaria and 
Virginian creeper had been induced to climb up 
its walls, although similar attempts with ivy and 
a white rose tree had not been equally successful. 
However, the red walls and red roof and minia- 
ture balcony of pitched pine, garnished as the 
latter was just now with the ruddy leaves of 
Virginian creeper, looked picturesque enough, as 
picturesque is spelt in these days — the whole 
thing irresistibly reminding one of those pretty 
dwellings from whence Mr. Gilbert’s charming 
heroines and happy peasants trip forth upon the 
stage with graceful gaiety. 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley had that subdued but 
inextinguishable pride in the Institute that parents 
exhibit in the case of a favourite child. She was 
its secretary, its treasurer, its librarian. She chose 
the books and the papers, she drew up the bye- 
laws and settled the hours of admission. She was 
under the impression — an impression fixed and 
immovable as the twinkling stars of the firmament 
— that as a caterer for the public amusement it 
competed successfully with the "Jolly Ploughman,” 

5 * 


52 


A NEW NOTE 


She was also under the impression that so philan- 
thropic, far-sighted, and liberal a friend of the 
masses — of Eastaston village — had never before 
been connected with the Leathley family. 

Since her marriage, Eastaston village had been 
plunged into a wild whirl of industrial exhibitions, 
cottage flower shows, and Girls' Friendly meetings. 
The thirst for dissipation thereby engendered was 
believed by Mrs. Edmund Leathley only to be 
slaked by such a draught of gratification as the 
Institute could supply. In her own cup of philan- 
thropic delight but one drop of bitterness mingled, 
— simply that, no matter what variety of entertain- 
ment her especial conception of rustic amusement 
allowed her to provide, the proportion of men to 
women present at the same was, roughly speaking, 
one in twenty. 

Mr. Leathley and Victoria had been known to 
make remarks upon this ominous symptom that 
were perhaps more amusing than gratifying. But 
the founder could always interpose her clear views 
in complete contravention of their strictures. As 
Victoria said, she would have died rather than 
have admitted the existence of one element of 
failure in her undertaking. 

The concert for which Mr. Louis Loevio’s services 
had been requisitioned was Mrs. Edmund Leathley s 
latest and most ambitious effort in the way of 
public amusement. 

When Mr. Leathley saw the programme, he said 
it would be much better if Conway Keppel and 
Hugh (his youngest son) blacked their faces and 
sang plantation songs in striped calico trousers 
to banjo accompaniments. But his daughter-in-law 


A NEW NOTE) S3 

would not permit any such corruption of the rustic 
taste. 

“ Nothing," she said seriously, “ will induce me 
to vulgarise our entertainments with striped calico 
trousers ! No — no — no ! I won't have them." 

“I am willing," said Conway Keppel, with grave 
languor, “ to do anything to oblige. I shall be 
happy to dispense with the trousers if you think 
it would be likely to be — er — more — er — refined." 

“ It certainly would," replied the rustics’ friend, 

musingly. “ Still why, what on earth are you 

all laughing at ? " 

Victoria, with tears of mirth in her dark eyes, 
essayed the explanation of their hilarity. But an 
attempt to explain a joke to a person whose sense 
of the ridiculous is not attuned to yours, or indeed 
sharply perceptive at all, is seldom successful. Mrs. 
Edmund Leathley remained incapable of perceiving 
anything in her speech provocative of mirth. The 
programme of her concert likewise remained free 
from the vulgarising influence of striped calico 
trousers. The former was select, classical, and as 
unsuited to the nature of the audience as it well 
could be. 

One part ot it alone was an unqualified success 
— Loevio’s singing of Spohr’s song. Few singers 
indeed could have brought the song within the 
comprehension of such an audience. That he was 
able to do this, and to do it beyond all doubt, was 
an achievement that, to those who understood the 
matter, was about as notable a triumph in its own 
way as an artist could win. 

Before he had sung three bars, Loevio knew that, 
as he expressed it to himself even while he was 


54 


A NEW NOTE. 


singing, “he was going to take the cake.” He put 
his whole strength and his whole art into this song, to 
which he had persuaded Victoria to play the violin 
obligato. Scarcely one of those who heard him 
but could feel the beauty of expression and effect 
which he drew from the apparently simple notes. 
But it was perhaps only an artist like Victoria who 
could fully appreciate the cleverness of his achieve- 
ment. If his method of singing could in some 
respects be taken exception to by a severely critical 
and cultured musician, the overwhelming richness of 
his voice and his instinctive and consummate mastery 
of its capabilities almost made amends. Whatever 
Art may have withheld from Loevio, Nature had 
given him a superb voice. 

Moreover, the man was an actor, and the thousand 
and one dramatic possibilities of a situation in which 
he played the chief part spread themselves before 
him. The joy of holding his audience, the joy of 
the true artist, invigorated him. For these few 
minutes he knew that he held these people, gentle 
and simple, in the hollow of his hand. It was but 
a poor occasion, only an insignificant audience in 
a village room, but it was a foretaste of greater 
triumphs to come. He could sway these people, 
he could play upon their senses and their souls, 
even as Victoria made the violin strings respond 
to the touch of her fingers ; he knew that by-and- 
bye he would sway other audiences too, for human 
nature is the same here in the village and there 
at Covent Garden and the Albert Hall : the touch 
which can awaken and enchant does not lose its 
cunning because one audience is great and another 
little. Nay, it is harder, as Loevio knew, to win 


A NEW NOTE. 


55 


a response from the English rustic than from the 
most critical company who ever crowded the Scala 
at Milan. 


“But oh ! the joy of that duet, 

Through all my life I’ll ne’er forget.” 

Loevio sang in English, in deference to the nature 
of his audience, but the somewhat commonplace trans- 
lation of the refrain was transformed by the power 
of the artist as much as by the inimitable melody 
of the music. 

“ Through all my life I’ll ne’er forget.” The words 
in their ringing melody echoed and re-echoed through 
the room. In the timbre of Loevio’s voice there 
was too a natural pathos, which his keen sense of 
dramatic fitness told him how to use. 

Mr. Leathley sat with his hand over his mouth ; 
Conway Keppel dropped his eyeglass and his air 
of criticism, and forgot to resume either for fully 
five minutes ; the tears were in Ada Barclay’s sweet 
childish eyes ; Annesley was looking at Victoria’s 
face. The sarcasm had died out of it. He noted 
the softening of her eyes, the emotion in the curves 
of her lips. A sort of dull anger and jealousy took 
hold of him. Even “ that cad ” could bring into 
her face something which he was powerless to 
awaken. He had never in his life touched the 
finer chords of her nature. It hurt him that a 
mere abstract thing like music should have rule 
over her. He could not understand it, he could 
only at such moments as these even realise that 
it was so, and that he rebelled against it. 

But perhaps Loevio was himself the most 
jnoyed. The success of his singing thoroughly 


A NEW NOTE. 


56 

aroused and quickened his facile emotional tem- 
perament. 

When the song was ended he looked at Victoria ; 
and when he looked at Victoria he forgot even 
Miss Barclay’s presence beneath him in the front 
row. Victoria’s evident delight and appreciation 
were more to him than the presence of fifty Miss 
Barclays. Victoria was an artist, and Loevio’s 
artistic aspirations were too genuine not to lead him 
to desire passionately the approval of his fellow- 
artists. Besides, Victoria fascinated him. The 
charm of complete novelty, to him irresistible, was 
greater with her than with the younger girl. He 
was more at his ease with Miss Barclay, but 
Victoria quickened his interest. Her intense re- 
finement, personal and intellectual, subdued him. 
Her pride and sang-froid excited his admiration. 
Her womanhood swayed his senses. 

When he found himself for a moment alone 
with her in the smoky little room at the back of 
the platform, where the caretaker lived, his ex- 
altation of spirit emboldened him to look into her 
eyes. 

“Your accompaniment,” he said, as her eyes met 
his, “was my inspiration. It whispered to my soul 
a golden word of encouragement.” 

It was a speech, to say the least of it, not 
quite in the best taste. Most of Victoria’s friends 
would have been surprised at the very tolerant 
smile with which she listened to it. But, then, 
most of her friends would probably have not re- 
membered that the frailest creature upon earth is 
perhaps the artist, tempted with his, or her, own 
praises. 


A NEW NOTE. 


57 


Therefore she smiled without any shadow of 
coldness or disapproval full into Loevio’s ardent 
blue eyes. 

“ But oh ! the joy of that duet, 

Through all my life I’ll ne’er forget.* 

The words had scarcely passed his lips when he 
knew that he had blundered. He had forgotten 
himself. Her eyes swept over him with perfect 
composure. 

“ I think it went very well, thank you.” She 
said it formally. She was a little pale. And she 
turned away and left the room at once. 

“ She’s as proud as ten devils,” said Loevio 
to himself ; “ but she’s adorable — lor’ ! she’s ador- 
able ! ” 

Then he went and sat down near Ada 

Barclay. 


CHAPTER VII. 


The high-wheeled polo cart was waiting to take 
Mr. Louis Loevio to Long Farmley station. Mr. 
Loevio’s portmanteau had been deposited in the 
back of the cart, ancl he was about to deposit 
himself beside the groom in front. He was making 
somewhat flourishing adieux to Victoria in the portico 
when the wheels of a second equipage came crunch- 
ing their way over the gravel drive. The Eastaston 
groom backed the polo cart to make way for the 
newcomer. The latter was a large, hooded phaeton, 
heavily built, and very shabby. It had basket- 
pattern sides, once white, but now dimmed and 
yellowed by age — like the bridal dresses which forlorn 
maidens in romantic novels are continually finding 
in old trunks. 

A stout cob drew the phaeton. The cob, like 
Mr. Crummies' immortal pony, was probably “ a 
good one at bottom,” but he was not much to look 
at ; though it might also be said with truth that 
there was a good deal of him to look at — as 
regards his coat. 

The charioteer of the phaeton was a lady, whose 
appearance, even at first sight, was sufficient to 
proclaim that she and Fashion had long since 
parted company. Nevertheless, in spite of this 
terrible fact, and of her exceedingly plain face, she 
was a fine-looking old lady, and she handled the reins 
58 . 


A NEW NOTE. 


59 

in a manner that would have shown any person who 
understood the matter that she had driven good 
cattle in her day. She came up the avenue 
taking her time — or, rather, the cob was taking 
his time. He walked solidly, with his head well 
down ; his mistress sat erect, with her head well up. 
Very well up indeed, because she had been trained 
in the days of back-boards, when young ladies were 
taught to stand and sit and walk, before lounging 
was discovered, and when nobody under fifty who 
had the use of their limbs ever sat in an armchair. 
She glanced about her from time to time with a 
quick sharp turn of her eyes. Once she turned 
her head backwards to speak to a fat-faced freckled 
youth, who was clad in a livery coat, light-coloured 
tweed trousers of a “ loud ” pattern, and a chimney- 
pot hat which had seen rain. This youth sat perched 
up on the very small seat which stuck out behind 
the very large hood. 

“ Thomas,” said the old lady, “ you may go round 
and unyoke. Ask Jervis or some of them to let the 
cob stand in one of the boxes. Don't leave him 
in the yard, he has a cough still.” 

The old lady was evidently very much at home. 

Thomas grinned, a cheerful grin of acquiescence. 
Thomas’s grin was Thomas’s favourite medium of 
communication with his fellow-creatures. 

The cob, the phaeton, and the lady drew up 
at the portico. Thomas, with the eye of the groom 
upon him, sprang to the ground gallantly, and flew to 
the cob’s head. The action was purely ornamental, 
for the cob was always obliging in the matter 
of standing still, but Thomas had rudimentary 
instincts under his stable-jacket. 


6o 


A NEW NOTE. 


His mistress threw aside the leather apron which 
covered the rug over her knees, and alighted. As 
she did so she caught sight of Victoria and Mr. 
Louis Loevio. 

"Ah, Victoria, dear child!” and as she spoke 
her little fierce light-coloured eyes scanned Mr. 
Loevio in a quick flash. 

“Well I’m jiggered!” said that gentleman to 
himself, “but here’s a dowdy old dolly.” 

The “dowdy old dolly” put her hand into 
Victoria’s. 

“ How are you ? ” she continued, “ and where is 
everybody else ? ” 

“ Gertrude,” said Victoria, smiling up at her, “ is 
in the blue drawing-room, the rest of us are all 
about somewhere. I will come after you in a 
second.” She glanced at Mr. Loevio. 

The old lady, without further ado, walked across 
the outer hall, pushed open a door very determinately, 
and found Mrs. Edmund Leathley in the blue 
drawing-room. 

“Good morning, my dear,” she said briskly, as 
the latter rose up to greet her, "I hope you 
are very well. Where is all your family? and 
why is Victoria talking to a hairdresser at the 
hall door?” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Victoria, “he is not a hair- 
dresser. She had caught the words as she came 
in. 

“ Then why does he look as if he were a walk- 
ing advertisement for somebody’s wigs?” returned 
the old lady grimly, as Victoria put her arms 
round her neck and kissed her. 

Victoria laughed. 


A NEW NOTE. 


6l 


“ His unhappy hair,” she said, “ seems to set every- 
body’s back up against him.” 

“ I don’t know anything about everybody’s back, 
my dear,” returned her visitor; “ my back, I assure 
you, is neither set up nor down by it. Who is he ? ” 

“ One of the new singers,” Mrs. Edmund Leathley 
interposed, in her matter-of-fact tones, “ and ” — with 
conscientious impartiality — “ he really does sing well. 
Mr. Leathley says he has heard no tenor to equal 
him since Mario.” 

“ Every new tenor is a new Mario,” returned the 
old lady ironically. “The number of new Marios 
which appear and ^appear from time to time 
is amazing. What brings the man here ? ” 

“ He came down to sing last night at the Institute.” 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley’s reply was given in some- 
thing less than her usually slow decisive accents. 
The Institute had before now come in for laceration 
from the tongue of the tall old lady in the black 
alpaca cloak. 

“ I hope the Institute appreciated him,” was her 
remark now. “ But why should he be here ? ” 

“ That is precisely what / said,” the immaculate 
Gertrude hastened to add, delighted to secure such 
an unwonted ally, “ that is precisely what I said. 
I said, Why have him here, why have him to stay 
in the house? Victoria and her father believed 
it was incumbent on their hospitality to do so. I 
must confess I think their ideas of hospitality are 
a little overstrained.” 

She laughed, as superior persons laugh when 
they say things like that. Most people know that 
laugh. 

w I daresay you do,” responded this terrible old 


62 


A NEW NOTE. 


lady, deserting her ally with instant and shameless 
indifference. “ Hospitality which deserves the name 
is apt to seem overstrained nowadays. So you * 9 
she turned to Victoria, “are, as usual, the author 
of folly ? ” 

“As usual,” said Victoria, with quite appalling 
nonchalance. 

“ Don’t be impertinent, madam, and don’t let us 
waste time. I came over this morning to have 
some music. Shall we come upstairs now ? — if 
you will excuse me,” she added, turning to Mrs. 
Edmund Leathley with her old-fashioned courtesy, 
which never forgot itself. 

Victoria stood up obediently. 

“ Where is your father ? ” enquired the old lady, 
as they went to Victoria’s room. “ I want to ask 
him if he has forgotten that there is such a person 

as Dorinda Payne in the world my dear, what 

a beauty! Now does he re-pot them as I told 
him ?’ 

She alluded to a magnificent chrysanthemum 
which stood beside Victoria’s piano. And as she 
spoke, she just touched the white feather-like 
petals very gently with her fingers. 

“ Well, I don’t know, Aunt Doll,” replied Victoria. 

They all called her Aunt Doll at Eastaston, 
although, as a matter of fact, she was only Mr. 
Leathley’s second cousin. 

“ Pll ask about it,” continued Victoria ; “ but our 
plants never seem to me to touch yours.” 

The elder woman shook her head, but she looked 
pleased. 

“Tut! child, my plants have only an old woman 
to look after them. Your fine gentleman wouldn’t 


A NEW NOTE. 63 

thank you for your opinion. Now — where’s the 
music ? ” 

Victoria placidly took up a portfolio. 

“ What shall we try, Aunt Doll ? ” 

“ Let me see, what have we here ? H’m — h’m ! the 
Kreutzer Sonata, — h’m ! yes, come along. Tired ? 
Nonsense ! Tin not tired, at sixty-five.” 

She wheeled round suddenly on the piano stool. 

“ Do you drink claret? What? Yes! That’s 
right. Now, are you ready ? Begin.” 

They began. Victoria was evidently familiar 
with the order of proceedings at performances 
like this, for when, at the end of about six minutes, 
her visitor suddenly lifted her hands from the piano, 
and said, — 

“ I don’t think we’re quite together, Victoria 
child,” the latter responded, — 

“ Well, I don’t think we are, Aunt Doll,” very 
much as a matter of course. 

They had not been together from the start. Aunt 
Doll, whose musical acquirements were largely the 
result of self-teaching, played with excessive zeal, 
and extraordinary variations of the loud and soft 
pedals. Her regard for time was of the slightest ; 
and she invariably chose to play the most pro- 
foundly difficult music which she could find. 

“ I hate,” she said, “ inferior imitations of the great 
composers — just as I hate electro-plate and sham 
jewellery.” 

She began the Kreutzer Sonata again with un- 
ruffled courage. 

“ Take from the top of the page, bar one, Victoria.” 

Victoria obediently started off once more. On 
they went — the violin on its normal course, the 


6 4 


A NEW NOTE. 


piano crashing, flying, and loitering in turn, and in 
superb disregard of the violin part and of Beethoven, 
and of every rule which Art has laid down to govern 
concerted music. 

Nevertheless, in this fashion both instruments in 
some mysterious manner actually came in at the 
last bar together. Victoria drew a long breath and 
laughed. Her companion laughed also. 

“Well, well, well ! ” she exclaimed, raising her 
hands palms outward, “ it's not bad for an old 
woman who has had two dozen music lessons in 
her life. Where are we now ? Oh, yes ; now — are 
you ready?” 

In the andante , and in the finale , the piano came 
to awful grief. Victoria knew it would. It always 
did. And it always failed to disturb the pianiste’s 
equanimity or arrest her progress in the slightest 
degree, because she had by this time become so 
thoroughly immersed in her own performance that 
the violinist had only to pick out a note here and 
there at intervals, and keep her instrument from 
interfering with the sweeping splendour of the 
piano's triumphal march of discord. 

“ Ah — h ! ” exclaimed the old lady, when a chord 
of perilous uncertainty as to its component parts, 
and of tremendous reverberation in its volume 
of sound, had once more brought her hands to a 
standstill, “ I have one fault ; I always get fortissimo , 
no matter how quietly I begin — always. It is horrible. 
It must, I fancy, be because I think in fortissimo . 
There, I have deafened you, and you are laughing 
at me. Yes, you are — don’t contradict me : I hate 
lies. Ah ! ” as the door opened, “ here is your father. 
Well, George, here I am, giving Victoria the benefit 


A NEW NOTE. 


65 


of my instructions. So you are going to let her 
make a mountebank of herself before the British 
public? I am ashamed of you. George Leathley, 
you haven't the spirit of a mouse to let yourself be 
bullied by a little minx who only happens to be 
your own daughter." 

Mr. Leathley passed his hand over his hair, and 
his eyes twinkled. 

“ My dear Dora, I am not a strong-minded ” 

“ Woman," rapped out his visitor, sharply. 

“ Well, woman, if you like to put it so." 

“ No, I don't," cried the other, rising at once to 
the fly. “ I hate, loathe, and despise strong-minded 
women — monstrosities, the whole pack of them. 
But I like a man to have a will and a mind, and 
to keep them both in good fighting order." 

“Ah, so do I. At least, I like other men to 
undertake all that ; for myself, it's too much 
trouble." 

“Trouble, trouble!" with a snort of rage. “Oh, 
you,j you " 

“Come and have some lunch,” said her host 
placidly. “ Dora, I agree with you from the bottom of 
my soul, I always do agree with every word you say, 
and if you can get Victoria to remain like the 
modest violet in its lowly shade I shall be for ever 
grateful to you. I give you leave to try. Parental 
authority is at an end. It went out with crinolines 
and croquet, and I see no prospect of its coming in 
again." 

“ More shame for it, and more shame to you for 
allowing it ! " 

“ La Reine y Fashion," pursued Mr. Leathley, stick- 
ing his thumbs in his waistcoat, and looking 

5 


66 


A NEW NOTE. 


complacently down his pudgy little figure to his very 
neat feet in their thick-soled, laced boots. “Who 
can dispute her commands? Not I.” 

“You will be sorry, and it will rain Fashion once 
too often.” 

And she was so delighted with this execrable 
pun that she suffered herself to be led away to 
luncheon quite meekly. 

“ Well, Master Conway,” as that young gentleman 
came forward in the dining-room to greet her, “ how 
do you do ? and how are all the paragraphs and 
publishers ? ” 

“ Oh, tolerably fit, thank you,” returned Mr. 
Keppel, languidly. 

“Jargon,” was the response, “ I do not understand. 
If you have anything to say to me , be good enough 
to say it in the Queen’s English.” Conway Keppel 
smiled delightedly. “In my young days” (Mr. 
Keppel’s smile grew broader, because “ in my young 
days ” was her favourite formula), “ ladies and 
gentlemen left jabbering and jargon to the lower 
orders.” 

“ There are no ladies and gentlemen in these days ; 
consequently there are no lower orders,” said Conway 
Keppel smoothly. 

“ I quite agree with you,” was the curt response. 

Mr. Keppel grinned appreciatively. 

“ By the way, where’s old Jerry ? ” asked some one 
presently. 

“ I left him in the river fields potting rabbits by 
the ton,” replied Conway Keppel, who was trying 
to persuade Miss Barclay to drink shandygaff. He 
pulled an envelope out of his pocket as he spoke, 
and showed it to her. “Just you look at that,” 


A NEW NOTE. 


67 


he said, pointing to the stamp in the right hand 
corner, which was cleanly perforated by a small ' 
round hole. “ He put a shot through that with a 
British bulldog at six yards.” 

“ Mr. Annesley ? ” said the girl, interrogatively. 

The speaker nodded. 

“Yes, he’s a nailer, ain’t he? Awful good old 
chap.” 

The awful good old chap was at that moment 
sitting in solitude on a grass bank with his knees 
doubled up to his chin. His gun and three brace 
of dead bunnies lay beside him on the grass. The 
potting of rabbits by the ton had ceased, for the 
present. Annesley’s fair, ruddy face looked sombre 
under his tweed cap. He looked tired, also. These 
days were trying him ; all that could be said was, 
that it would have tried him still more to go away. 
Yet he would have to go away very soon. Busi- 
ness, connected with his home and his property 
in Ireland, called him to that distressful country. 
Moreover, he knew perfectly well that, even if he 
could do so, no course could possibly be more fatal 
to pursue with Victoria than to hang about her inces- 
santly at all times and in all seasons. Unfortunately, 
that was precisely what it would have given him 
most pleasure to do. Nevertheless, so inexplicable 
are the ways of the man who is in love, that, al- 
though there was no earthly reason why he should 
not have been enjoying her society at lunch, he 
chose instead to sit alone on a grass bank, looking 
into a thick -set hedge. He knew that by-and-bye, 
when he was far enough away from Eastaston and 
from her, he would look back to these wasted 
moments and call himself a fool ; yet he remained 


68 


A NEW NOTE. 


all the same, sitting on the bank, staring into the 
hedge. But what he saw at that moment was, 
not the tangle of brown branches, the crumpled 
leaves, grey and faded under the wind of autumn ; 
what he saw in imagination was Victoria’s face, 
the delicate face with its deep, dark eyes, and 
refined, sarcastic mouth. He knew it tolerably well, 
and he knew that in all his acquaintance with 
it he had never seen in it a glimmer of hope for 
him. Would no power that he could summon to his 
aid, no force of love upon his part, ever awaken a 
glow of warmth in the pallid face which was his 
heart’s delight ? Annesley’s clear, honest eyes grew 
dull and cold at the steady vision of disappointment 
which spread itself before him. 

He was not a physiognomist or phrenologist, 
or any ist, he was only, so he told himself, an 
every-day sort of chap, who loved her better than 
anything else in the world, and had loved her for 
years, and would love her, he imagined, as long' 
as he lived ; but he knew when he looked in her 
face, because nature’s own instincts told him so, 
that if his were not the touch which should win 
a response from her, some other would inevitably 
do so. 

He shifted his cap a little farther over his eyes, 
and thought it out once more. Not that that pro- 
cess ever resulted in any tangible good. In the whole 
thing he could find only one satisfactory feature : 
the fact, of which he could assure himself, that so 
far there was no other fellow. In this respect a fair 
field lay before him. “ If she didn’t know me so 
well,” his shrewd native wit said to him, “ I’d stand 
a better chance.” 


A NEW NOTE. 


69 


He might, or he might not. Women like Victoria 
are very much what mathematicians designate 
“ unknown quantities.” But he was unaware of 
that, because he was a man too deeply in love 
to perceive much besides his love. Therefore he 
wondered now, with a pathetic inability to understand 
the nature of women, if there was any plan that he 
could hit upon which would further his cause. 

It was characteristic of him that the possibility 
of her devotion to Art scarcely presented itself 
as a serious factor in the matter. When he told 
her that her marriage with him would leave her 
freer to pursue her career, he was sincere in his 
declaration that he would not actively interfere 
with it ; but in his heart he believed that marriage 
would cure her of all desire for a career. 

What is a woman’s intellectual or artistic life in the 
eyes of a man who loves her ? What is it that it 
should be taken into account? He wanted Victoria, — 
he the man, the ruler, the divinely appointed arbiter 
of woman’s destinies. To him, as to every man of 
vigorous vitality and strong will, it seemed a hard 
thing that only a girl’s puny opposition should 
stand between him and his heart’s desire. He 
would not have tricked or trapped her, because to 
a man of Annesley’s type there are certain possi- 
bilities of action which simply never suggest them- 
selves as possibilities at all ; but he would strive by 
every means in his power to win even a reluctant 
consent. A reluctant consent would have contented 
him, or he thought it would. If he could only 
take her in his arms, and caress her, and satisfy his 
love, he was quite sure he could awaken hers. Of 
anything further, it was only in moments of rare 


70 


A NEW NOTE. 


spiritual insight that he thought at all The 
marriage of true minds was about as much to him 
as it is to the average man in love. Intellect, 
spirit, soul, affected him, he believed, scarcely at all. 
He wanted her — to be his love, his wife, the mother 
of his children. That was all. Nevertheless, it was 
everything to him. His passions were not facile ; 
consequently, they were proportionately strong and 
proportionately tenacious. 

These were some of the thoughts which absorbed 
him as he sat there on the bank. In his absorption 
he took a handful of pebbles out of the dry ditch 
beside him, and began to shy them at a white spot 
on a particular twig. Pebble after pebble he flung 
at it and missed. His hands and feet grew cold, 
and the chill of the autumnal breeze nearly stung 
his face. Nevertheless, he kept on doggedly, aiming 
steadily, unweariedly, until at last he succeeded in 
hitting the mark three times in succession. Then, 
and not till then, he was satisfied. He stood up and 
flung away his last handful of pebbles, and stretched 
his cramped limbs. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


“ GEORGE,” said his cousin, “do you think you are 
wise ? ” 

They were walking together in the Dutch garden, 
Mr. Leathley and his cousin. The Dutch garden 
might as well have been called the French garden, 
or the Italian garden, for anything especially charac- 
teristic of Holland which its trim clipped aspect 
presented ; but it was a beautifully sunny spot, and 
a favourite spot with everybody at Eastaston in 
the autumn or winter months. 

“ Do you think you are wise ? ” 

The tone of her voice as she repeated the question 
was very different from what it had been an hour 
earlier. Her whole personality, too, had undergone 
a change. The outlines of her plain razor-sharp 
features had softened graciously. The keen, faded 
eyes had grown sad — almost lustrous. Mr. Leathley 
met the glance of the latter steadily. 

“ Yes,” he replied gravely, “ I think — I hope I am.” 

“ She is so young, and so excitable ; and setting 
aside even that, there is always danger within and 
without.” 

“ I know,” said her cousin ; “ I agree with you ; 
and I held out until I felt that it would be unjust 
as well as unwise to hold out any longer.” 

There was silence for a minute. 

“ Jerry Annesley is here,” said the old lady suddenly. 

7 * 


72 


A NEW NOTE. 


“ Oh, yes” Mr. Leathley smiled slightly as he 
replied. 

His companion sighed impatiently. 

Victoria's father looked at her and smiled again. 

“ My dear Dora, who is it that has said — ‘ what 
is to be, will be?'” He spoke in the easy accents 
characteristic of him — half humorous, half cynical. 
“ If Victoria is to end as the orthodox girl ends — 
in love and marriage — an excursion into another 
world for a little while first won’t hinder that result. 
If she is not to end so, then she must have some 
other employment for her faculties. Victoria, you 
see, has faculties. Heaven has blessed, or cursed 
me, whichever way you like to put it, with one child 
out of five who has exceedingly exceptional faculties. 
I have a very strong notion that were I to arbitrarily 
interfere with her artistic inclinations I should 
destroy that which no human power could restore. 
Anyhow, I am going so far as to take all the blame, 
which is bad enough, and all the responsibility, which 
is worse, of the affair upon my own shoulders. God 
bless my soul ! I wonder why I ever married ; no 
man on earth was more unsuited.” 

“Few men on earth are better suited,” said his 
cousin quietly. “ George, you deserve well of your 
children. I hope Victoria appreciates her father.” 

Mr. Leathley stopped in his walk, and glanced 
round him with an air of caution. 

“Dora, can you keep a secret? Well, Victoria 
is the only one of my children who understands 
me , and she is, moreover, the only one of them 
whom I understand ; and, Dora,” — he paused, his 
eyes twinkled, — “ she is the only child I have who 
never bores me . Now, ’pon my soul, I owe her one 


A NEW NOTE. 


73 


for that If she likes to amuse herself in her own 
way, she may do it. Besides, I am not at all sure 
that she has not a career before her. I know her. 
Others don’t.” 

He pulled down his wristbands and closed his 
clean-cut humorous lips. 

“ Look here, Dora,” — his face changed and he 
stuck his hands deep down in the square pockets 
of his tweed coat. “ Victoria is just like myself, and 
it never did with me to pull the strings too tightly. 
And if that dear old chap Jerry takes my advice, 
which is not likely (they never do take your advice 
in those affairs, though they come and ask for it, 
Heaven only knows why), he’ll let Victoria run 
herself out. It’s his only chance, as far as I can 
see. I always could manage women — always. I 
never had a quarrel with a woman in my life — ’cos 
why ? I always give ’em their heads.” 

He smiled, and she smiled, but she looked more 
amused than convinced. 

“She is very young,” she said again. 

“She is five-and-twenty, and at five-and-twenty 
a woman ought to begin to know her way about. 
Victoria is by no means young for her age.” 

The old lady put out her hands with a curious 
gesture of impatient helplessness. Mr. Leathley 
smiled again very slightly. His expressive mouth 
took a certain curve, 

“ You would like to order her going, Dora. My 
dear cousin, that is the fatal mistake which parents 
and guardians will make.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” was the response ; “ it is done every 
day, with the best results.” 

“ And the worst,” added her companion calmly. 


74 


A NEW NOTE. 


“ However, Dora, I will admit — for the sake of 
argument — that your plan succeeds in nine cases 
out of ten ; in the tenth case — and a tenth case is 
inevitable— it is a hideous failure. Now Victoria, 
in this instance, is, in my humble opinion, the tenth 
case, and I, for my part, strongly object to any 
course which, with Victoria, would entail or imply 
from the outset even the possibility of hideous 
failure. I may, of course, be wrong. To err is 
human, very human indeed, — quite, one might say, 
a little monopoly of humanity ; still, were I to go 
upon your plan, I feel certain I should be wrong. 
Of two evils, Dora, choose the lesser. Unfortunately, 
every course of human action contains possibilities 
of evil ; one can only choose that which contains 
the least, at all events.” 

He met the glance of the angry light eyes very fully. 

“ I know what you are thinking of,” he said, 
laughing. 

“ It is nothing to laugh at,” was the quick retort. 

“ Pardon me, my dear Dora, it was only the 
feminine outlook which amused me.” 

“ The feminine outlook, as you call it ” — she smiled 
grimly — “ will soon be an historic reminiscence.” 

Mr. Leathley laughed more heartily. 

“ The feminine outlook, Dora, is only undergoing 
certain modifications, like other outlooks at the 
present day. Perhaps you will permit me to say 
that there was room for improvement in its con- 
stitution — a little room for improvement,” he added 
persuasively. 

“ Bah ! ” said his companion ; “ nothing on earth 
is improving.” 

“Not even ourselves, Dora?” 



“Everything,” pursued the tall old woman, “is topsy-turvy.” 
—Page 75 



A NEW NOTE. 


7 5 


Everything,” pursued the tall old woman, who 
towered over her small smiling companion, “ is topsy- 
turvy. What will be the end of it all neither you 
nor I will live to see.” 

Mr. Leathley opened his lips. 

“ The gradual progress of the human race,” he 
began composedly. 

“ The human race ” — she repeated it with cutting 
scorn — “ is no better to-day than it was in the Garden 
of Eden.” 

Mr. Leathley’s lips twitched. 

“ Ah, that Garden of Eden,” he spoke plaintively ; 
“you women always get back to that Garden of 
Eden sooner or later.” 

“ George,” cried his cousin, “ you are a fool ! ” 

He smiled blandly, and looked as if it was the 
most comfortable thing in the world to be a fool. 

“Yes, you are ; and Victoria is your own child.” 

“ So I have reason to believe, — I allude to your 
last statement. As regards your first, I am afraid 
the point of view comes in there too. But we were 
looking at the Garden of Eden, were we not ? I 
am afraid the Garden of Eden has less charms for 
the young woman of to-day than it had for her 
mother. Victoria, at all events, appears to want 
none of it — at present.” 

“Ha!” said his cousin, “‘at present ’ — you admit 
that much ? ” 

“ I do. That is what I desire to make allowance for.” 

“ Then we are agreed.” 

He smiled. 

“ Well, perhaps as to the end, but not the means.” 

“ George, your hair-splitting is abominable. I 
never could endure that sort of thing in my life 


76 


A NEW NOTE 


Keep it for the House of Commons. Ill tell 
you the plain truth, if you care to hear it. I wish 
Victoria was safely married.” 

“So do I, safely married. But the safety is just 
what I should like to insist upon ; unfortunately, it 
is just what in all cases is more or less difficult 
to obtain ; in Victoria's case, much more than less.” 

He dropped his air of banter and looked at her 
gravely. 

“ Now, Dora, don't be angry with me. You ask 
me to speak plainly. Very well, I will. You would, 
if you could, marry Victoria forthwith to Jerry 
Annesley ? ” 

“ I would,” interrupted the old lady ; “ there is 
nothing like being open and aboveboard.” 

Mr. Leathley waited patiently. 

“ Very well,” he resumed, after the interruption, “ let 
us be open and aboveboard by all means, though the 
course in general is not free from objection. You 
believe that Victoria, as Jerry's wife, would be safe ? ” 

“ She would be safer,” interposed his cousin again, 
“ than careering about the world as a professional 
musician. George, I wonder you can contemplate 
such a thing for your daughter ! To me it is an 
abomination.” 

Mr. Leathley again waited patiently. His infinite 
patience, with a point of view totally opposed to 
his own, was something more than remarkable, in a 
politician. But, then, George Leathley, to be sure, 
had never been a success as a politician. 

Once more, when his cousin's voice ceased, he 
opened his lips. 

“ My contention is, Dora, that of two evils one 
should choose the lesser. In the present case, I 


A NEW NOTE. 


77 


can conceive of few evils greater than to force or 
to induce Victoria to marry for the sake of safety, 
so-called. There are women with whom, on the 
whole, perhaps, such a course may be satisfactory, 
but Victoria is not one of them. If Victoria con- 
sented to marry Jerry Annesley to-morrow, — well, 
the Lord help Jerry, Dora!” 

The humorous twist came round the speaker’s 
mouth, and his eyes twinkled brightly again. 

“Jerry,” returned his companion, “would be able 
to help himself.” 

But she said it tentatively. 

Mr. Leathley shook his head. 

“ I won’t play ducks and drakes with Victoria’s 
future, Dora.” 

“ I should like to put it out of her power to make 
ducks and drakes of it herself.” 

“So should I, if I could. Unfortunately, I can’t. 
But I won’t be a party to launching her on a voyage 
which might end in absolute shipwreck. A pro- 
fessional career in art or literature — don’t be angry, 
Dora, — is not in most cases, and certainly not in 
Victoria’s case, irrevocable. Marriage would be 
utterly irrevocable ; and some day,” — he paused 
momentarily, and his eyes grew stern, even sad, — 
“the shipwreck would come, for — Victoria is my 
child. Her heart is asleep, Dora, — for God’s sake 
leave it so, or, at any rate, don’t let us run the 
risk of making its awakening a pain and a sin.” 

The keen face of the woman beside him looked 
suddenly lined and grieved. She knew very well 
to what he alluded. 

It was all over and done now, many a year ago. 
One to whom it had been so much was lying in 


78 


A NEW NOTE. 


her grave, but the remembrance of it never left 
her . She looked into her companion's face with a 
sad scrutiny. 

“ You," she said slowly, “ you still remember." 

His face looked drawn. 

“Dora, there is nothing on earth so easy as to 
make a hash of one's happiness. My poor mother 
did it for me effectually ; need I tell you the 
result ? " 

“ Victoria," she returned, “is like you. Your wife's 
honour was safe in your hands, and her husband's 
honour would be safe in hers." 

He smiled, a little, bitter, wintry smile of sheer 
impatience. 

“Honour,” he repeated, “honour! Oh, yes, it 
held out ; but — God knows how long it would have 
held out if — she had lived.” He paused. When he 
spoke again his voice was clearer and less moved. 
“ Now can you not understand, Dora ? Don't you 
see that I dare not, with a temperament like 
Victoria's, take any other course? With the other 
girls" (he alluded to his elder daughters) “it did 
very well, but Victoria is Victoria, and God forbid 
that I should repeat my mother's mistake with her ! " 

“ But this career ! this absurd, preposterous notion 
of a professional career ? I hate it, George ! What 
has your daughter to do with such things?" 

“ Providence, Dora, I assure you, took no pains 
to ascertain my wishes on the subject before making 
me the father of an artist." 

“Tut!" with a swift return of her old manner; 
“let her be an artist as much as she pleases, in 
private — insist upon its being in private." 

“ Ah ! that is precisely what an artist can never 


A NEW NOTE. 


79 


be. Your artist, Dora, pants for notoriety, popu- 
larity, fame.” 

“ I have no patience with such panting in a 
woman : in a man, I suppose ” 

“ Then a woman should not be an artist ? ” 

“ No,” said the old lady, popping beautifully into 
the trap. 

“ Dora,” said her tempter, with inimitable gravity, 
“ you really should have been the author of the 
universe and the creator of its creatures.” 

“ Sneer if you like,” she retorted, “ and as much 
as you like, but no man ever yet got Dora Payne 
to see that black was white. I suppose I am out 
of the way of the world. I am an old woman 
who, thank God, was brought up in an age 
which had some respect left for the decencies 
of life. In these days I find myself completely 
at fault. No good ever came yet of men and 
women deliberately renouncing that station of life 
to which it has pleased God to call them. Oh ! 
you may smile. I daresay it's very amusing indeed 
to hear an old woman repeating the Catechism ; 
only I happen to believe in the Catechism, and it 
seems to me that the young men and women of 
the present day will go anywhere and do anything 
except their duty in that state of life in which God 
has placed them.” 

He smiled broadly, with the warm good-humour 
which had made for him many friends and pre- 
served him from almost a single enemy. Nothing 
pleased him better than a war of words with this 
redoubtable kinswoman, whose tongue was as a 
sharp sword while her heart was as a silken cushion. 

“ My dear Dora I ” 


8o 


A NEW NOTE, 


“ Don’t * my dear Dora ’ me ! ” 

“ Very well, I won’t, then. Only let me remind 
you that, admirable as your contention is, were it 
carried to its logical conclusion — its logical conclusion, 
Dora — the world would have been deprived of some 
of its greatest sons and daughters, some of its noblest 
treasures in every branch of human knowledge.” 

“ Human knowledge,” remarked this dreadful 
old lady, with a perversity of which perhaps only 
a vigorous feminine mind could be capable, “ is well 
enough in its way, but there are better things 
than human knowledge. No, you won't persuade 
me ! Go and tell the House of Commons that 
black is white, and evil is good, and I have no 
doubt it will believe you, that it will be delighted 
to believe you. But I say, and will always say, 
that for your daughter to deliberately enter upon 
a mode of life for which Providence plainly never 
intended her, thereby to satisfy the caprice or the 
craving of an unhealthy ambition, is wrong, inex- 
cusable, improper in the highest degree. There, I 
have done. I daresay” — her voice changed suddenly 
— “ I have said too much. I am laying down the 
law where I have no business to lay it down. But 
the child is very dear to me.” The break in her 
voice touched him. 

“ Look here, Dora,” he said gently, “ I agree with 
you in part But you will not misunderstand me 
when I say that the ruling principles of one age do 
not always meet the requirements of another. When 
you and 1 were young, and looked at life as the 
present generation look at it to-day, our milieu , so 
to speak, was entirely different. The tide of ex- 
istence has now set in another direction. The best 


A NEW NOTE. 


8l 


we can do is to fit our young people to sail with 
it. I won't say that it is better or worse than its 
predecessor, only that it is different. But it is so, 
and the generation of to-day must reckon with it 
The barriers of civilisation and social conditions 
have widened, and are widening more and more ; 
and after all, if civilisation was to be true to its 
name, if it was to really justify its existence, this 
must be so. Victoria — to come back from the 
general to the particular, because that is what 
concerns us most nearly — is a child of the age, em- 
phatically and perhaps typically so. My other 
children are not. Edmund belongs to the old 
order, which you would fain keep within the old 
rigid boundaries. Perhaps that is a good thing 
as he is my eldest son, although ” He paused. 

“ Edmund,” interposed his hearer, “ is a respectable 
noodle ; and his wife is a prig — a female prig — 
starched too, but not blue!” 

Mr. Leathley laughed. 

Bravo, my cousin ! give a woman time, and she 
will be certain to turn upon her most cherished con- 
victions. I mean to give Victoria time to do likewise. 
She may, or she may not. But it seems to me, as 
far as my human foresight can predicate, that in 
allowing her to pursue to the utmost the career 
which her exceptional talents clearly mark out for 
her, I am, at all events, giving her at least one 
domain in which happiness can be secured. As to 
social barriers, Dora, I don’t care one jot for social 
barriers in comparison with Victoria’s welfare. 
Social barriers are all very well, — I will go farther, 
they are very necessary, — but social barriers were 
made for man, not man for social barriers.” 

6 


82 


A NEW NOTE. 


His cousin and friend flung out her hands with a 
gesture of despair which so tickled her companion 
that he laughed till he shook, and the tears stood 
in his eyes. 

“ When you come to actual perversion of Scripture 
I think it is time for me to say no more. Well, 
George, you may be right or you may be wrong — 
much more likely ; but right or wrong, I say again, 
I hope Victoria appreciates her father. I don’t 
suppose she does. It would be too old-fashioned a 
duty or a virtue for a child of the age. But she 
ought. If she doesn’t I daresay it’s your own fault.” 

He gave an odd shrug of his little square, stout 
shoulders. 

“ Ah, I never could manage the heavy -father 
business, Dora. As Hugh would say, I’m not built 
that way.” 

“ George, upon my word, you have never known 
right from wrong since you joined those blackguard 
Liberals ! ” 

“ Oh, Aunt Doll ! ” exclaimed Victoria’s voice 

behind them, “ what a very, very you know ! I 

am perfectly shocked. In my young days, Aunt 
Doll ” 

“ How dare you ! ” said Aunt Doll, frowning at her. 
“ Humph ! in my young days, and in my old ones 
too, there were and are blackguard Liberals.” 

She repeated it with the intense relish of one who 
enjoys to the full that which is neither lawful nor 
ladylike. 

“ Blackguard Liberals ! ” 

She said it once more ; and as she did so she 
looked from Victoria to Victoria’s father, and smiled 
with childlike delight 


CHAPTER IX. 


They formed a somewhat silent trio as they entered 
the house together. 

Mr. Leathley and his cousin were thinking of 
their past conversation, while Victoria was pursuing 
a course of induction which led her with little 
difficulty to conclude that her two companions had 
been talking about herself. It further led to the 
conjecture that one of them would have somewhat 
to say to her before she took her departure. Nor 
was she at fault. 

Dora Payne, as she called herself, — Miss Payne, 
of Farmley, as the world called her, — had a good deal 
which she wished to say to Victoria : that Victoria 
would not be especially willing to hear it was a 
trifling consideration, which would not for an instant 
stand in the way of its utterance. 

Accordingly, they no sooner reached the hall 
than the elder woman turned to Victoria. 

“ Let us go into the conservatory,” she said rather 
abruptly, “you and I. I have not seen the chry- 
santhemums yet.” 

Mr. Leathley shot a glance at hifc daughter. 
There was a brief flash of amusement in it. “ Your 
turn now,” it seemed to say to her. 

Victoria led the way obediently into the blue draw- 
ing-room. She knew that any attempt to defer the 
coming ordeal would be as futile as it would be 
** 


84 


A NEW NOTE. 


ridiculous. She knew also, or fancied so, that she 
was a match for her adversary. 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley, who was writing a note 
at her own special escritoire in the corner, looked 
up as they entered the room. 

“Won't you come to the fire?” she said politely 
to Miss Payne. She was very much afraid of that 
tall old lady, but she was also, she believed, very 
cognisant of her own duties. 

“ Thank you, my dear Gertrude,” was the reply, 
“but Victoria is going to show me the chrysan- 
themums.” 

Victoria's sister-in-law returned to the composition 
of her letter. Victoria, with the feeling that the 
world contains many excellent persons whose range 
of vision is so limited as to prevent them seeing 
an inch beyond their own noses, accompanied her 
visitor in silence. 

“ Now, Aunt Doll, if you come down here you 
will see the new pink cluster which he is so 
proud of.” 

Victoria spoke hurriedly, indicating the spot 
with her finger at the same time. 

“ My darling child, never mind the pink cluster. 
It can wait. I am going to have a little talk with 
you first.” 

This was horribly disingenuous ; or perhaps it 
would be more correct to say that this was horribly 
ingenuous, because, as a strategist, Aunt Doll was 
clumsy, to say the least of it. 

Victoria smiled with resignation. 

“ Do sit down,” she said pleadingly; “you positively 
must sit down, because you are looking so judicial, 
Aunt Doll, that to sit in judgment is indispensable.” 


A NEW NOTE. 85 

This, the second and feebler effort at diversion, 
succeeded no better than its predecessor. 

Aunt Doll sat down promptly in a Madeira chair, 
beside a marble Aphrodite. 

She caught Victoria’s hands in her own, and 
pulled her over to her, in front of her knees. 

“ Stand still ! ” she exclaimed imperiously ; and 
she gave her a little shake, as she had done many 
a time before, in the days when Victoria wore 
pinafores, and got into scrapes. “ I have been talk- 
ing to your father about you.” 

Victoria smiled. 

“ Oh, it’s all very fine to smile, my dear, but smiles 
don’t excuse anything.” 

“ I will try to excuse everything,” returned Victoria, 
“ if you think it would be any good.” 

The elder woman looked up into the delicate 
smiling face with a strange pathos in her own 
hard features. 

“ Ah, you young people, you young people ! you 
laugh us to scorn, and tell us to take our advice 
to — to — Jericho . I wonder you are not ashamed 
of yourself,” — her hands tightened round Victoria’s 
with a pressure that was half a caress, — “ but you 
are mad, yes! you are — mad with pride, and vain- 
glory, and nonsensical inflation. So,” with an abrupt- 
change of tone, “you think you are going to be 
happy for ever and ever ? Child, God help you ! ” 

Victoria’s small dark head executed a sort of 
scornful toss. 

“You dear Aunt Doll, I don’t know that I quite 
think anything of the sort.” 

“ That’s a lie, my dear,” returned this plain-spoken 
old woman sharply. “ Every young person upon this 


86 


A NEW NOTE. 


earth thinks of being happy, and dreams of being 
happy, and is even persuaded that she is going 
to be happy some day — that perfect happiness is 
possible in this weary world. Oh, what it is to be 
young! At least, that is what the young people 
in my young days thought. Perhaps the young 
people of the present day think differently. All 
sorts of unnatural conditions prevail nowadays.” 

“ I fancy,” said Victoria, “ that in the present day 
we don’t as a rule put personal happiness altogether 
in the first place — at least, in the old-fashioned ‘ love 
and marriage ’ sense.” 

It was grandiloquent, this speech, and it was 
delivered with a certain feminine flutter of the 
eyelids which might have been effective with any 
auditor but the present one. 

The old lady in the Madeira chair released her 
young companion’s hands, and threw herself back 
upon the cushions. Resting her elbows on the 
wicker arms of her chair, she joined the tips of 
her handsome well-cared-for old fingers together 
and raising her eyebrows significantly exclaimed, — 

“ Hoity, toity, fol de riddle ido ! ” 

It was a disconcerting response, or would have 
been to most persons. But the future artiste’s self- 
possession was apparently proof against disconcertion. 
She smiled once more. 

“ My dear Aunt Doll, I am afraid you and I 
look at things from a different point of view. 
Suppose we agree to differ ? ” 

Her voice sounded cool, politely cool. 

The old woman’s face changed. She looked up 
with a puzzled, wistful scrutiny. 

“You are so cool, so calculating, so self-centred, 


A NEW NOTE. 87 

you young people,” she said musingly, “ I don’t 
understand you.” 

Victoria laughed pleasantly. She drew over 
another chair and sat down beside her old 
friend. 

“ It’s very dear of you, Aunt Doll, to bother about 
my affairs, only don’t be down on me because 
I don’t seem to find my metier in running round 
like the little pigs in the old song, crying out, ‘ Who’ll 
eat me? who’ll eat me?’ Now — now — now,” as an 
ejaculation savouring of dissent came from her friend, 
“ this is what you’re driving at, Aunt Doll. Unfor- 
tunately, you see, I don’t seem to see it. I really 
have no desire to furnish a meal, like the little pigs. 
On the contrary, I mean to have a meal on my own 
account, all to myself.” 

“ I hope it will agree with you,” interposed her 
auditor shortly. 

Victoria laughed again. 

“ Sounds greedy, doesn’t it ? Well, I must take 
my chance. That is what I want — my chance, and 
I mean to have it. Every English man has always 
had his chance, and every English woman is going 
to have hers now. Turn about is fair play, you 
know, Aunt Doll.” 

“Is it?” returned Aunt Doll grimly. “There 
was a proverb that my mother was very fond of 
quoting : ‘ Those that live longest will see most. 1 
We’ll see, Victoria , — ox you'll see, more likely.” 

Victoria patted the hand lying nearest to her 
own. 

“ I love you, Aunt Doll,” she said caressingly. 

“ Victoria,” returned her redoubtable opponent, 
“ keep your nonsense for a better occasion.” 


88 


A NEW NOTE. 


Victoria smiled. 

“ Poor dear ! ” she said softly, with another little 
pat. “ Look here, Aunt Doll,” — the tone of her 
voice changed completely — “ I can’t stand the eternal 
dawdle any longer. Upon my word, I’d rather 
play the fiddle for three pounds a week in Kensington 
Town Hall. After all, it would be doing something? 

Miss Payne drummed her fingers on the arms oi 
her chair. 

“ So you require a sphere ? ” she said sarcastically. 
u My dear, pray take a husband.” 

“ Aunt Doll, you are too perfectly delicious for 
words. I adore your plain-speaking. A husband 
is just what I don’t mean to take. Why should I ? ” 

“Why should you not ? ” was the dry retort. “I 
fail to see why you should escape.” 

Victoria grinned with intense appreciation. 

“ Oh, you perfect darling ! ” she exclaimed enthusi- 
astically. “ Why are you not a man ? and I’d marry 
you to-morrow.” 

“ I am excessively obliged to you,” said the old 
lady. 

Victoria laughed delightedly. Her old friend 
looked at her. 

“ Well, my dear child, you are very secure in your 
own wisdom.” She spoke gravely, but the ironical 
inflexion lingered in her deliberate, downright accents. 
“ You have spent twenty-five years in this world, 
and you imagine that you have plucked the heart 
out of the mystery of life. When I was your age, 
I imagined much the same thing, so I forgive you ; 
but I am sorry for you. You want to do, and you 
expect to be able to do, what no man or woman 
ever yet was able to do — you want to arrange your 


A NEW NOTE. 


89 


life entirely in accordance with your own will. You 
believe, as so many young persons have always 
believed, that you can do this and that, you will 
never make a mistake, or that, if you should make 
a mistake, the mistake won’t matter. Your desire 
to become a professional violinist is a part of this.” 

Victoria uttered an exclamation. 

Miss Payne smiled coldly. 

“ Oh, yes,” — she raised her hand as she spoke to 
compel silence, — “ the new order of young woman 
has found a panacea for all earthly ills, an infallible 
recipe for all earthly happiness. She is wrong. 
She will be no happier in the new world of her 
own creating than in the old world which God created 
for her. 

Victoria bit her lip. She looked bored. As her 
cousin’s words ceased she raised her eyes and her 
eyebrows carelessly. 

“ Happiness,” — she laughed slightly as she repeated 
it, — “how you people do go on about happiness \ In 
your day, Aunt Doll, did they never think of anything 
else?” 

The face of the elder woman flushed quickly. A 
little pink glow came up into the faded cheeks. 

“ I am not aware, Victoria, that I have said or 
done anything to deserve insolence.” 

Her voice was icy. She rose from her chair and 
drew her mantle about her shoulders. 

Victoria jumped up impulsively. In a moment 
her arms went round her friend. 

“ Darling, I didn’t mean anything of the sort, 
believe me.” 

She pressed her cheek coaxingly against the old 
lady’s neck and looked up into her face. 


90 


A NEW NOTE. 


“ Dear Aunt Doll, you don’t mean to say you 
are going to be vexed with me} Oh, you she! n't 
be vexed with me ! ” 

“ I should like to know, I should very much like 
to know,” Miss Payne here observed with calm 
deliberation, “what Jerry Annesley would give to 
be in my place at this moment ? ” 

A flicker of something that looked very like 
malice shone, as she said it, in the keen old eyes 
which rested on the slim swaying figure whose 
encircling arms were still clinging to her. No doubt 
she was an incorrigible old lady. 

Victoria frowned unmistakably, and the clinging 
pressure of her arms relaxed somewhat. 

“You are a very naughty old lady indeed! 
Imagine saying things like that, Aunt Doll ! I shall 
blush, in a minute.” 

“ Indeed, \ my dear! Don’t trouble yourself with 
anything so out of date. Tut!” — her tone changed 
again, — “you know, as well as I do, that the man 
is infatuated about you — poor fool ! ” 

“ Which is the fool,” inquired Victoria softly, 
“ I, or the man ? ” 

Miss Payne shook her head impatiently, but her 
lips twitched. 

“ Aunt Doll,” proceeded the cool impertinent tones, 
“as Carter used to say long ago in the nursery, 
now the fat’s in the fire.” 

She paused ; Miss Payne said nothing. 

Victoria’s eyes grew graver. She looked up into 
the sharp frowning face above her own. Her 
fingers fiddled nervously with the fringe on her 
cousin’s mantle as she spoke. 

“ It’s no good to badger me,” she said quickly, “ no 


A NEW NOTE. 


91 


good, not one little bit. Jerry is an excellent 
creature, and he has been ever so dear and nice 
and all that, but it is quite another thing to marry 
him.” 

She was pale, but she uttered Annesley’s name 
with no more emotion than she would have uttered 
that of the marble Aphrodite in front of her. 

“You have refused him?” said her companion, 
at once. 

The clear pallor of Victoria’s face showed a 
little colour under the skin. Once more she frowned 
unmistakably. 

“ Is that a fair question ? ” she returned coolly. 

“Well, perhaps not,” admitted Miss Payne, with 
equal coolness, “ but you’ve answered it ” 

A cold, black shadow came into Victoria’s small 
dark eyes. She was silent. 

Miss Payne, watching her, sighed. Into her eyes 
there crept a look of bewilderment. She drew 
Victoria closer to her. 

“ It is my turn now to ask you not to be vexed 
with me — with an old woman who loves you.” 

She spoke gently, very gently indeed, for her. 

The girl’s lips parted slightly in a little smile. But 
the shadow remained in her eyes. 

Miss Payne sighed again. She knew that when 
that cold, steady arrogance shone in Victoria’s eyes 
it meant a difficult time for whoever had brought 
it there. 

“Well, dear child, are you going to be angry with 
me after all ? ” 

“ I am not angry,” replied Victoria ; she spoke 
slowly ; “ but you misunderstand me. It is hopeless, 
I think, trying to make you understand.” 


$2 


A NEW NOTE. 


She paused, shrugged her shoulders, and laughed. 

“ Oh, don’t you see, can't you see, what this is to 
me ? ” There was a sudden passionate break in 
her voice, contrasting vividly with its tone hitherto. 
“ Why am I to be driven away from the music 
which is my lifel Why am I to be denied the 
chance of making something out of the one really 
good thing in my whole nature? Because, indeed, 
some commonplace man imagines that he would 
like to marry me. For that I am to fling everything 
dearest to me to the four winds of heaven, and make 
a humble curtsey, and thank his lordship for his 
kindness in asking me to share his commonplace 
existence. Oh, I don’t blame you ” — her eyes 
flashed — “ how can I blame you, when for age after 
age the one cant cry has been dinned and dinned 
and dinned into every woman’s ear, and every girl’s 
ear, from the moment that she is able to understand 
it ? Marriage, marriage, marriage ! Marry well if 
you can, but marry some one, any one, by all means. 
And you wonder why men are conceited, over- 
bearing, selfish.” 

A little smile curled her lips. 

“ I have the greatest admiration for men. I do 
not know how they are as decent as they are, with 
the husband-hunter ever behind them in full cry. 
I assure you it is the eighth wonder of the world 
to me.” 

“ Very sweeping assertions,” said Miss Payne’s 
incisive accents. 

Victoria looked full into her old friend’s eyes. Her 
own face grew colder and harder. 

“You remember old Mr. Fotheringay of Court 
Marten ? ” she said abruptly. “ He had seven 


A NEW NOTE. 


93 


daughters, you know. Every year on the first of 
May he took one daughter to London for two months. 
Some one asked his coachman — it was before the days 
of railways — where his master's travelling carriage 
was bound for. ‘ London,' said the coachman ; ‘ we’re 
taking cattle up to Smithfield. Please God, we’ll get 
a good sale before we come back.' ” 

“ I've heard that story before,” said her auditor, 
coldly. 

“ You'll probably hear it again,” returned Victoria, 
with a laugh that had a sneer in it. 

Miss Payne closed her lips. 

Victoria's face flushed a little. 

“ Can't you laugh, Aunt Doll ? I've told that 
story to innumerable people, and it made them all 
laugh.” 

“Did it, my dear? You must have felt very 
gratified .” 

Victoria came closer to her. 

“ How very, very horrid you can be, Aunt Doll ! ” 
She looked quite humble as she said it, but her eyes 
were very dark and cold. 

The old lady smiled faintly. 

“Your philosophy of life,” she said, looking at 
Victoria steadily, “ is very comprehensive, no doubt, 
from your point of view. But you have left some- 
thing out of it, Victoria.” 

She paused. 

“ Have I, Aunt Doll ? ” 

“Yes, my dear.” 

“ What?” 

“ Love.” 

“ Oh, no, Aunt Doll, only marriage.” 

The sharp, faded eyes flashed. 


94 


A NEW NOTE. 


“ My dear, I bow before the wisdom of to-day. 
As to the cleverness of to-day, it is dazzling. Take 
care, Victoria,” — her voice changed again, — “ don’t 
meddle with edged tools.” 

“ Ah, that is precisely what I am trying to avoid. 
You are scarcely consistent, Aunt Doll.” 

“ Indeed? ” said the old lady curtly. 

“ Love,” repeated Victoria musingly, “ love, love, 
love ! It sounds a good deal, but it isn’t much, 
only a peg to hang marriage on. No, it isn’t even 
that much, in most instances.” 

Miss Payne leaned her hand on the back of 
the Madeira chair. 

“ I trust,” she said, “ that you may never know 
better.” 

Victoria laughed. 

“ How dear of you, Aunt Doll ! No, don’t be 
angry. We’re mixing up two things, you and I, 
love and marriage. They haven’t much to do 
with one another nowadays.” 

“ Cheap cynicism,” said her companion quickly, 
“ is the current coin of the chatter which calls itself 
conversation, nowadays .” 

Victoria shrugged her shoulders. 

“Let us leave love where it is, out of it, as it is 
generally, Aunt Doll, and stick to the marriage 
question, — my marriage, if you like.” 

Miss Payne looked at her once more. 

“ It’s all so commonplace,” continued Victoria 
contemptuously, “ horribly commonplace, — the eligi- 
ble young man and the grateful alacrity of the 
properly-brought-up young woman. And I am 
to give up Music and freedom in order to add 
another couple to the commonplace list. Oh, no, 


A NEW NOTE. 


95 


Aunt Doll. Thanks a thousand times, but no 
all the same. I' m so sorry I can't fall in love 
with it all ! if I could only manage that (it's so 
appropriate, to fall in love) I really would be 
happy to oblige you. But I can't. They say 
we must needs love the best when we see it. In 
that case I suppose I ought to be madly in love 
with Jerry. Poor old Jerry! He's a dear good old 
thing, but oh ! how commonplace it would be ! " 

“ I am sixty-five years old," remarked her com- 
panion, “ but my experience of goodness has not 
been so fortunate as yours. I have not met goodness 
so constantly as to find it at all commonplace." 

She pushed the Madeira chair aside as she 
finished speaking, walked across the conservatory, 
and lifted the blue-and-silver brocade of the portiere. 
The blue drawing-room was empty. Mrs. Edmund 
Leathley had gone out driving with Mrs. St. John. 

Miss Payne turned to Victoria, who had followed her 

“ Perhaps," she said formally, “ you would kindly 
order my phaeton." 

Victoria rang the bell and gave the order. Her 
companion threw herself into a deep soft chair. 
Victoria turned aside into one of the windows, 
and stood there looking out into the Dutch garden. 

Both ladies started when the respectfully modu- 
lated accents of Duckett from the corner of the 
screen announced that “ Miss Payne's carriage " was 
at the door. 

The owner of “ Miss Payne's carriage " looked up. 
The girl standing in the window looked round. 
The glance of each met midway in the wide old 
room. But neither spoke. Duckett retired as noise- 
lessly as he entered. 


96 


A NEW NOTE. 


A live coal from the fire dropped suddenly on the 
blue tiles under the grate. The small sharp crash 
caused a soft black ball that was lying on the rug to 
unroll slowly. The form of William the Conqueror 
disclosed itself. His portly presence raised itself 
upon his four legs. He stood erect, humped his 
broad back, curved his tail, and yawned so widely 
that every white tooth in his pink gleaming gums 
shone like glistening porcelain. In one deliberate 
survey he took in the room and its occupants. 
Without a shadow of hesitation, he skipped nimbly, 
with his tail pointing upwards, across to where the 
old lady was sitting in the low chair. Uttering a 
sharp, decisive cry, he popped into her lap, and 
began rubbing his square head up and down against 
her breast. 

“ Ah, King Billy, 1 ” said Miss Payne, tickling his 
ears, “ you never desert me ! ” 

Once more the eyes of the two women, the young 
and the old, met midway across the room. 

The younger woman crossed the room, and with 
a sudden quick impulse sank on her knees beside 
the chair which held her two favourites. She put 
her little firm white hands into the old woman's lap, 
considerably inconveniencing William the Conqueror, 
by so doing. 

“ Aunt Doll," — her voice was quick, but it was less 
cold than usual, — “ isn’t it much ado about nothing ? ” 

Miss Payne smiled. Then she sighed. 

Victoria pressed her hands farther down into 
her friend’s lap, and looked longer into the piercing 
light eyes. The face of the elder woman relaxed 
in spite of itself. In another minute or two she 
smiled quite broadly. 


A NEW NOTE. 


97 


“You are a spoilt child,” she said curtly, in her 
downright decisive manner, — “ yes, you are ; don’t 
dare to contradict me, madam ! Have your own 
way, my dear. But perhaps before you are as old 
as I am you may discover, as many a woman has 
discovered before this, that a good comfortable 
marriage cuts the black knot of a woman’s difficulties 
in the only way that is really effectual or really 
permanent. As I said before, have your own way. 
Only be sure you don’t throw away the substance 
for the shadow. You may be a great artist one 
of these days, you may conquer the world, or drive 
the world before you ; there is nothing, they say y 
that a woman nowadays cannot accomplish ; she 
can even unsex herself, so powerful has she grown 
nowadays ; but you, whatever you may or may 
not become, you will remain a woman ! ” 

Victoria laughed. 

“ Oh, how do you know, Aunt Doll ? ” 

“ I know, my dear, by that which the young 
women of the present day are doing their best 
to denude themselves of, my woman’s instinct.” 

She raised her hand to the back of Victoria’s 
head, and, drawing Victoria’s face closer to her own, 
kissed her twice on the cheek. 

“ I must go,” she added, and she rose slowly 
from her chair, and tipped William the Conqueror 
out of her lap. 

When she had seated herself in the phaeton, and 
as Victoria, standing in the wind, was fastening 
the leather apron round her, with her own hands, 
she said abruptly, — 

“ Tell Jerry Annesley, with my love, that whenever 
he chooses to find his way over he will find a 

7 


A NEW NOTE. 


welcome awaiting him at Farmley. He will come, 
although he is a young man, and I have nothing 
to offer him but an old woman in a big lonely old 
house. When you discover another man like Jerry 
Annesley, be sure you let me know. Now, good-bye. 
Don’t fiddle the flesh off your bones completely, 
you will by no means enhance your charms, or 
your chances of success with the public, by presenting 
yourself before them as an anatomical specimen 
of bones . Let go his head, Thomas.” 

Victoria stood in the portico and watched the 
clumsy old phaeton as it rumbled down the avenue, 
carrying its owner back to the home that was indeed 
a lonely one. 

Once upon a time Farmley was a great house. 
Once upon a time the Paynes of Farmley were a 
fine family. But times change, and the fortunes of 
fine families change with them. 

The old woman in her shabby phaeton was 
the last of her family and of her father’s house, 
and she had fallen on evil days. The story of 
her life would be the story of a past, dead as 
Queen Anne : a past having nothing to do with 
the present. 

Only, under the old trees in Farmley Park, and 
through the great faded, worn-out rooms, wandered 
those children of the past, pale phantoms of happier 
days, whose lot it is to re-people the waste places, 
and fill up the desert paths, so long as this world 
and its inhabitants shall continue to be the victims 
of Time and Circumstance. 


CHAPTER X. 


ANNESLEY’S crumb of pleasure was almost con- 
sumed. 

Only a few hours were left of his stay at 
Eastaston. His visit had been, with the exception 
of one incident, little different to many another 
pleasant sojourn which he had spent under the 
same roof. Nevertheless, at the close of this, it 
seemed to Annesley that he had reached a point 
when a definite end would be put to a certain 
definite thing. It seemed to him that his intercourse 
with Victoria would henceforth be less satisfactory, 
from his point of view, even than it had been 
hitherto — although, hitherto, from his point of view, 
much had been left out that he would fain have 
included in it. 

Yet now, when, as he believed, the end of ft all 
was come, he would gladly have recalled the past 
years. 

These bright, sunshiny days of late autumn, 
when Eastaston was such a pleasant house to find 
oneself in, were dark days to him, because he felt 
more and more, as each one slipped by, that Victoria 
was going away from him, and that once these days 
were ended, the best of his intercourse with her 
would be ended also. 

He began to realise now, for the first time, some- 
thing of what she had meant when she told hint 

99 


IOO 


A NEW NOTE. 


that he himself, and his love, and his life, were 
quite outside her life. He began to see that her 
thoughts, her hopes, her aims, even her very self 
were really shut away from him, and that between 
her life and his a gulf yawned which not all his 
love, nor all his patience, nor all his endeavour, could 
by any means bridge over. 

He carried a dull, disappointed heart out with 
his gun in these days ; but as he carried also a 
face which was ruddy and healthy, and perhaps 
commonplace, no one, except, it might be, a certain 
sharp-eyed old woman, away in her big, lonely 
rooms at Farmley, had anything like a true con- 
ception of how matters were with him. 

When a man is still on the fair side of forty ; when 
he is the possessor of health and strength, and a 
desirable paternal estate, and a comfortable amount 
of funded property ; when he is a keen sportsman, 
and, primd facie, enjoys his dinner ; above all, when 
Nature has bestowed upon him an external appear- 
ance indicative of sense rather than sensibility, — it 
is difficult for his fellow-beings to credit him with 
certain feelings which they in general hazily associate 
with poets, painters, and defective physique. 

A man who seems most at home in buckskin 
leggings, and devotes at least two-thirds of his 
existence to the claims of “sport,” can scarcely 
expect Society to regard him as a fit and proper 
person for commiseration. 

In justice to Annesley, it must be said that 
he had no sort of desire that Society should do 
anything of the kind. His favourite aspiration 
was that he might get through the world quietly ; 
meaning thereby, that he had no wish to obtrude 


A NEW NOTE. 


IOI 


himself or his affairs in any marked degree upon 
its notice. He had certainly lived up to his favourite 
aspiration, as perhaps but few persons rarely suc- 
ceed in doing. But then, for all public positions or 
functions which entailed the public display of him, 
FitzGerald Annesley, he had the most profound 
aversion. 

It was quite in keeping with the ironic humour 
of the Fate which has under its care the love affairs 
of mankind, that such a man as FitzGerald Annesley 
should desire to have such a woman as Victoria 
Leathley. 

But he was not to have Victoria Leathley, how- 
ever much he might desire it ; that, at least, was 
plain to himself. Victoria was going away from 
him, away into a great terra incognita , a land of 
which he and men like him are profoundly ignorant. 
It seemed to him, as he stood and watched her, that 
the parting was such as to leave him absolutely 
nothing to look forward to. 

It never occurred to him to reproach Victoria 
even in thought, or to resent her absolutely un- 
disguised indifference to himself, or her equally 
undisguised inability to recognise all that she was 
to him. If he thought of her side of the matter 
at all, it was only to tell himself that she was no 
more to blame for it, or for failing to realise the 
pain of his position, than she was to blame because 
her eyes were brown instead of blue. If Victoria 
did not love him, could not love him, would not 
even allow him to love her, would not accept his 
love, the fault or the misfortune was his. All he 
had to do was to discover, if might be, where, and 
in what, his defects in her eyes were to be found, 


102 


A NEW NOTE. 


and at the same time to find a remedy for them, 
and apply it. 

Yet just now it seemed to him that even this 
laudable undertaking was little better than useless 
How could he make himself gracious in her eyes, 
if her eyes were not to see him? Had the width 
of the globe been put between them he could not 
have felt more completely divided, more cut off 
from her, than by this new life upon which she 
was about to enter. It seemed to assure him that 
here, her heart, and eyes, and faculties would be 
so pre-occupied, and so encompassed, as to shut 
him and his concerns totally out of her range of 
vision. 

Music, henceforth, was to have her for its own. 
He did not blame Music ; he only, with weary, 
but quite unconscious, humour, envied it. Never- 
theless, he could not put it into its proper place 
in the affair. How could he, when to him it was, 
on the whole, a more or less soothing accompani- 
ment to slumber ? 

At the same time, he was capable of realising 
that a woman who can accomplish the exceedingly 
difficult task of playing the violin, and who can, in 
addition, accomplish that exceedingly difficult task 
exceedingly well, will (in accordance with the nature 
of woman in the present age) certainly desire to 
win as much applause for the doing of it, and as 
much notoriety — only she would call it fame — as 
the world is willing to give to the few who can 
do what the many find impossible. Perhaps this 
was as much as a man of Annesley’s calibre could 
be expected to understand of the rationale of am- 
bition, in a woman like Victoria, He understood 


A NEW NOTE. 


103 


clearly enough, however, that it menaced his wishes. 
Would it not take her away from him? At that 
moment, this was the dominant note in his setting 
of the future : it would take her away from him. 

The evening before he left they were playing 
bezique for four, after dinner. At least, he was 
playing ; but Victoria was among those who were 
not. She was sitting by herself under a big palm, 
beside a shaded lamp, reading a book which was 
making her frown a good deal. 

Annesley watched her from the card-table. He 
was not an imaginative man as a rule, yet to-night, 
by some reflex action on the part of such imagination 
as he did possess, he was enabled to draw, from 
their relative positions at the moment, a parable of 
their future lives. 

“ He,” as he expressed it to himself, “ with the 
herd, fooling on after this or that triviality or 
nonsense. She, far away from him, as unconcerned 
apparently about him, or his pursuits, as if he 
simply did not exist.” 

“ Confound Edmund ! ” he growled to himself. 
“ How he laughs, that chap, like an infernal coster- 
monger ! ” 

Victoria glanced up as her eldest brother’s anything 
but melodious laughter rang through the room. In 
her eyes, which it was obvious scarcely saw the others, 
there was yet an expression which hurt Annesley. 
He was easily hurt at that moment. His thoughts 
were unusually bitter, for him. 

“ Oh, hang it all ! ” he thought. “ What a pack 
of roaring jackasses she must think us ! ” 

“ I say,” he exclaimed abruptly, at the conclusion 
of the first hand, “ can't somebody else come in ? I’ve 


104 


A NEW NOTE. 


got a head like a turnip since that long fag yesterday. 
Here, Keppel,” pushing back his chair, and catching 
that young gentleman by the arm, “you come in, 
old chap. Do you good, my boy. Relaxation clears 
a great brain, and gives a what-d’ye-call-it to a 
great literary style.” 

Conway Keppel paused. He had been out of 
the room, and had at that moment only entered it. 
He surveyed the card-table, and Annesley ; then he 
looked at Victoria, away under the palm. He 
screwed his eye-glass into his eye with extreme 
deliberation, but made no reply. 

“ Here,” said Jerry, standing up without more ado ; 
“here’s my chair.” 

“You’re extremely kind,” responded Mr. Keppel, 
in his cool, smooth accents. 

“Shove along,” said Annesley, more cheerfully. 

The younger man “ shoved along ” accordingly 
with uncommon good humour. 

There was a momentary pause in the game. 
Edmund Leathley, with one arm flung over the back 
of his chair, which he had tilted to an acute angle, was 
telling his father a story, understood to be funny. 
Edmund Leathley delighted in telling good stories. 
Perhaps it would be more correct to say that he 
delighted in yelling them. 

His way of telling, or yelling, good stories was 
familiar to most of his relations and friends. 

No human being ever heard much more of one 
of Edmund Leathley’s stories than his father was 
hearing at the present moment. 

“ My dear sir,” he was ejaculating, “it was the most 
screamingly funny — he, he, he ! ha, ha, ha ! ho, ho ! ” 
— a gasp and a gulp — “ Such a rippin’ — oho ! — o !— 


A NEW NOTE. 


10 $ 

Of all the— ha, ha ! — haaa ! — joke — you ever saw ! 
Devilish good — ha, ha, ha ! — the old boy himself 
couldn’t have looked more — he, he, he ! Oh ! the best 
thing ! ” 

The remainder was lost in choking spasms of 
stentorian laughter and coughing. 

Mr. Leathley sat with his legs crossed, and the 
smile upon his face which might be expected of a 
man who had himself acquired the reputation of a 
finished raconteur. 

Conway Keppel was all the time quietly talking 
to himself. 

Jerry Annesley, after turning himself round and 
round in the middle of the room like a dying tee- 
to-tum, had now got down on a three-legged stool 
at Victoria’s feet. 

Conway Keppel’s eyes stared over the top of his 
cards at Mrs. St. John. 

“The Dis-improvement of the Human Race,” he 
murmured impressively, while Edmund Leathley’s 
paroxysms of mirth and coughing were still making 
the candles flutter, “ is the one hope left ; specially 
the Dis-improvement of Marriage. Of all things let 
us set about the Dis-improvement of Marriage. 
Salvation ” — he nodded slowly — “ salvation lies that 
way.” 

Mrs. St. John confided to a dear friend whom she 
met in Scotland the following week, her conviction 
that that clever Mr. Keppel was a very odd young 
man. “ Doubtless,” she added, “ it arose from being 
so talented, and writing for the newspapers and that 
sort of thing. She had heard a doctor say once 
that great literary men are all mad ! ” 

So easily can a young man make a reputation now. 


CHAPTER XI. 


“Well?” inquired Victoria, looking up from her 
book, as Jerry got down on the three-legged stool. 

“Oh, nothing,” responded Anncsley, with refresh- 
ing lucidity. “ I mean ” — and he wriggled on the 
stool so that it creaked, which was natural — “ I don’t 
mean to stay— at least, I don’t want to interrupt 
you. I only want a bit o’ peace and quietness. 
Edmund is kicking up such a howling row over 
there, and my head is simply thumping like an 
eight-day clock.” 

“No, is it really?” said Victoria. She shut up 
her book at once, and flung it on a chair close by. 
Her manner changed instantly and completely. 

“ A headache,” pursued Annesley, as if he believed 
it incumbent on him to apologise for bringing under 
her notice anything so presuming on his part as a 
headache, “knocks one all to — to pieces.” 

But if he had said a heartache, he might have 
been, at any rate, quite as near the mark. 

Victoria was looking at him critically ; so 
critically and so kindly, as one might look at 
a sick child, that he began to feel his face growing 
hot. 

“You’re not a headachy person,” she said. “What 
do you generally do for yourself? ” 

“ Nothing,” replied Annesley humbly. But he 
experienced all at once a passing amelioration of 

106 


A NEW NOTE. 


107 


the conditions of existence. That she should take 
his headache under her care was . extraordinarily 
gratifying. 

“You are so stupid/' said Victoria, looking at 
him languidly, and leaning back a little more 
comfortably in her chair. “ I do not think there 
can be on earth any creature quite so utterly stupid 
as man.” 

He smiled. He was not in the least offended. 
He had, in point of fact, now reached to such a 
deplorable condition that so long as she let him sit 
there close to her, and look at her, while she in 
return looked at him, he was almost incapable of 
being offended by anything that she might choose 
to say. On the contrary, it seemed to please him 
that she should declare him to be the most stupid 
of all created creatures. 

“What's good for a headache?” he inquired, with 
praiseworthy desire to improve. 

Victoria laughed as she looked at him. “ Oh, good 
gracious ! what a question ! Any amount of things 
are good fora headache ; but really, you know — head- 
aches are so — so different, that naturally the remedies 
vary a good deal also. By the way, I know Gertrude 
has a 4 Family Physician,' or an ‘ Every one his own 
Doctor/ somewhere about. Shall I ask her to fetch 
it for you?” 

“ Thanks so much. I once tried ‘ Every one his 
own Doctor.' My experience was that it ought to 
be called ‘ Every one his own Undertaker.' It’s 
uncommonly like Lady Somebody Something's 
‘Nice Little Shilling Dinners."' 

“ ‘ Every Lady’s Guide to her own Cooking Range,' ” 
put in Victoria gently. 


A NEW NOTE. 


108 

“ Death at twenty yards/’ finished Annesley 
solemnly. 

“Well, I think/’ said Victoria, with an amount of 
sympathy that ought to have been gratifying, “that 
something should be done for you at once. You 
are apparently very ill.” 

“ My hectic colour,” returned the object of her 
remarks, “ is deceptive. It might lead the casual 
observer to suppose, — to erroneously suppose — that I 
was in the enjoyment of rude health.” 

Victoria laughed softly. 

“ Do you contemplate an entry into public life, as 
the newspapers say ? ” 

“ Me ! ” said Annesley. 

“ Ah, that’s better,” she observed tranquilly — “ more 
like yourself. When you got grammatical it alarmed 
me, but I fancied you might be preparing for public 
speaking. As you say you are not, I fear it must be, 
as the doctors would say, symptomatic of abnormal 
disturbance of the brain.” 

She spoke softly, but with her usual rapidity, and 
with a certain intonation in which humour was 
faintly discoverable. This she had inherited from her 
father. When Victoria was in this mood Annesley 
told himself, certainly for not less than the hundred 
and fifty thousandth time, that the man did not 
live who could be other than helpless in her hands. 
He could do nothing but look at her, as he sat on the 
three-legged stool with his arms and his legs crossed. 

“ I wonder,” continued Victoria’s short, sweet 
accents, “ if I should find it good treatment for a 
headache to sit on a horrid little knobby, carved 
stool in the attitude of a Japanese idol. I hardly 
think so, on the whole, you know.” 


A NEW NOTE. 


109 


But she would have found it difficult to drive him 
away just then. 

In a few hours, indeed, would he not be far 
enough away from her? These poor minutes were 
all that were left to him now. While he was laugh- 
ing at her ironical impertinences, the remembrance 
of this flashed vividly before him, and the laughter 
died in his face, if his lips still curved themselves 
into something resembling a smile. 

Victoria, whose dark, cold eyes let very little pass 
them unobserved, saw this, and saw the sudden 
blanching of his face, under the sunburn of his 
cheeks and chin. 

“ All the same,” she said quickly, and the tone 
of her voice changed with equal quickness, “ I do 
believe you have got a bad headache.” 

As she said it, she raised herself from the 
luxurious depths of her chair, and leaned towards 
him. 

“Yes, you have, Jerry,” she said again; and this 
time she leaned a little farther forward still — so 
close to him that the fluttering lace on her bodice 
almost brushed against him, and the faint, sweet 
perfume of her hair came close to his face. He 
felt the pulses of his body throbbing like the beat 
of a sledge-hammer in his ears. For a moment he 
couldn’t speak. 

If Victoria was acting deliberately, she was acting 
badly, inexcusably. But Victoria was not acting 
deliberately, in the sense of understanding what a 
trial her demeanour must have been to him. 

She knew certainly that he loved her. But unless 
he, or some one else, brought the fact directly under 
her notice, she rarely gave it a thought She was 


no 


A NEW NOTE. 


not a heartless coquette. The type is perhaps rarer 
in life than in fiction. But she was a perfectly 
heart-whole woman, and a woman who, strange as 
it may seem, had lived to her twenty-fifth year 
without having even once fallen in love with any 
man. Perhaps, too, falling in love in life is rarer 
or more difficult, than in fiction. 

Nevertheless, she was not a monster, but a 
woman who would not have let the meanest creature 
living suffer pain a moment longer than she could 
help, did she know of it. Only the pain of love and 
passion was unknown to her, except, indeed, by 
hearsay. Now hearsay does not, perhaps un- 
fortunately, form a guide entirely acceptable to the 
young, clever, modern mind. 

This woman’s mind was young and modern. 
She was extremely fond of the man in front of her ; 
she was genuinely anxious to cure his headache. 

“ Look here, Jerry, dear,” she said gently, while 
Annesley told himself, with an inward storm of 
rage, that if he let himself go now he would be a 
graceless cad, “ you’d better not go to the smoking- 
room to-night. If you’ve got a nervous headache, 
which I rather think you have — somehow you look 
like it — the chatter will drive you wild.” 

“ Oh, I’m all right,” returned Annesley, almost 
brusquely ; “ at least, don’t think me awfully rude, 
but it’s nothing, really ; it’ll be all right to-morrow, 
I’m sure. Don’t bother about it. I say, what I 
really wanted to know is something about your 
plans.” 

“ My plans,” said Victoria, falling in with his 
humour, “are pretty well settled. I go up to town 
next week ; and the first step will be the recital at 


A NEW NOTE. 


Ill 


St. James's Hall on the 27th of November. Say a 
prayer for me, Jerry, on that day." 

“ May I come ? ” said Annesley, in a low tone 

Victoria raised her eyebrows. 

“ Of course you may, but I thought you were 
going over to Ireland ; and won’t you be shooting 
at Kilsallagh just then?" 

“ I am going to Ireland," replied Annesley ; “ but 
I shall turn up in St. James’s Hall all the same, 
never you fear." 

Victoria looked a little amused, but she was 
gratified. 

“And then, after that?" he continued. 

“ The Deluge," she replied promptly. “ No," in 
a different tone. “ After that I have one or two 
engagements already booked, and it depends on 
the first affair, I suppose, how many more I shall 
get. We shall be here for Christmas, and then I 
shall go back to town, and work hard all through 
next season. I wanted to teach. I should hate it, 
you know, only that I felt as if I were not doing 
the thing thoroughly unless I taught ; but father 
simply wouldn’t hear of it, so I am blocked there. 
However ’’ — she spoke half absently — “ I sha’n’t be 
idle ; I shall try it another way." 

“ I suppose," said Annesley, speaking lightly, to 
force down the pain which this map of the future 
was causing him, “that from this out the average 
man needn’t expect to see you again?" 

She laughed, and shook her head. 

“ Nonsense ! " she said lightly. “ I’m not going into 
a nunnery." 

“ The Lord forbid ! ’’ interjected Annesley, with 
fervent and unaffected piety. 


1 12 


A NEW NOTE. 


“What are you going to do with yourself?” she 
asked carelessly. She rested her chin on the palm 
of her left hand, and looked at him as she spoke. 

“ Same old grind,” he replied indifferently. “ Castle 
Connaught and all the rest of it. There’s nothing 
new under the sun — at least, in my case.” 

“Doing nothing is, apparently, hard work.” 

She was sorry the instant she said it, which 
indeed was only in idle thoughtlessness. 

Annesley looked extremely hurt. His face flushed 
up redly. 

“We can’t all be geniuses,” he said, with something 
as nearly approaching to sullenness as his naturally 
sweet temper would permit. “ I believe ” — he spoke 
warmly — “that you think a chap like me, with no 
particular brains to speak of, isn’t fit to live.” 

“ Oh, don’t be perfectly absurd,” protested Victoria, 
smiling at him. 

“It’s true,” he persisted. “You can’t care a brass 
farthing for any one who hasn’t intellect and all that. 
You despise an ordinary chap who isn’t clever. 
You look down on ordinary people. I daresay 
you’re not aware of it, or that you can’t help it — 
that you do it unconsciously ; but you do it all the 
same.” 

“ Rubbish ! ” was her response. It was uttered 
perhaps just a little too emphatically. But it is 
possible that there was a little sting of truth in the 
accusation ; and it is possible, too, that it was not 
the more agreeable because his very ordinary wits 
had found it and pointed it out to her. 

“ Do you know,” she said, more quietly — partly to 
get away from a discussion which could lead to no 
possible results, and partly to make up to him for 


A NEW NOTE. 


113 


the evident offence her words had unwittingly caused 
— “ I think you must have your hands pretty full at 
Castle Connaught ? ” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Annesley. “Of course, 
the place takes a lot of looking after.” 

He apparently did not think it necessary to add 
that his view of the process commonly called 
“looking after a property” was a good deal more 
comprehensive than that which men of his age and 
circumstances as a rule are content to take ; but 
perhaps she knew tjiis, or divined it, because she 
said immediately, — 

“ I wish everybody was as thorough as you are, 
Jerry. I assure you it would be a much better 
world to live in, if they were.” 

He only uttered a sort of inarticulate exclama- 
tion, something between laughter and dissent. 

“ I’d like to show you the old place,” he said 
quickly. He looked down as he said it, and began 
elaborately rearranging the ribbon bow on his shoe. 

“ So you shall,” responded Victoria composedly. 
He glanced up swiftly, as if he did not quite under- 
stand her. “ I’m always intending to go and see 
Ireland one of these days. I don’t know why I 
haven’t gone before. I know father would have 
taken me, but then there’s always such a lot to do, 
you know ; and Ireland doesn’t seem to be on the 
way to anything,” she concluded. 

Annesley’s face brightened. 

“Well, look here,” he said eagerly, “you don’t 
come to Ireland without coming to Castle Connaught. 
Now mind, that’s a bargain, Victoria. I’ll undertake 
to show* you Ireland a lot better than you’d see it 
by just fooling round over the hackneyed tourist 

8 


A NEW NOTE. 


1 14 

tracks — the Lakes of Killarney, and all the rest 
of it.” 

“ I am sure I should,” assented Victoria ; “ and 
I shall certainly be delighted to come to Castle 
Connaught, if you’ll have me. Well settle it — you 
and I and father — some time next year.” 

“Oh!” said Jerry. “Next year. Well, next year 
isn’t very far off, at any rate.” 

This was consolatory, and he could feel that there 
was something left to him. 

She smiled, but she neither endorsed nor con- 
tradicted his remark. 

“ I am going to slip away,” she said to him, 
lowering her voice. “ There’s father moving ; I shall 
just catch him in the hall, and say good-night to him.” 

She stood up, and Annesley stood up too. 

“ By the way,” she said, picking up her book, 
“ I suppose you’ve got some eau-de-Cologne ? ” 

“Well, yes,” said Annesley. 

“ All right ; put some on your forehead. It’s the 
only thing for a headache like yours. Have you 
got one of those spray things? No? Well, if you 
care to come to the foot of the turret stairs I’ll 
fetch you one. Come on ; we’ll go out by this 
door.” 

In the hall they found Mr. Leathley. Victoria 
went up to him and laid her hand on his shoulder. 

“ Good-night,” she said, kissing him. “ What 
have you got there ? ” she added calmly, seizing 
his hand, in which he was holding some newspapers. 
“ The new Spectator. Give that to me. No ; you 
may keep the others.” 

“Well, upon my word ” observed her father, “you 
are a cool hand ” 


A NEW NOTE. 


H5 

“ I'll give it you in the morning,” returned his 
daughter, magnanimously, alluding to the Spectator. 

She nodded and laughed as she said it, and then 
she turned to Annesley, and they went off together 
by the long corridor to the turret. When they 
reached the latter, Victoria ran up the stairs 
lightly, and in about five minutes came running 
down again to Annesley, with something in her 
hand. 

“ Now,” she said, in a little gasp — she was 
breathing very quickly from the race — “now, Jerry, 
look, here it is.” She held out her hand as she 
spoke, with the little glass bottle in it. “Wait.” 
She came nearer. “ Do you understand these 
spray things? See, this is how it goes — do you 
see? Put lots of eau-de-Cologne in, and then 
drench your forehead well with the spray. It’s 
simply delicious. You may keep that spray thing 
altogether if you like. Hugh gave me a bigger 
one on my birthday — such a swagger one, with silver- 
gilt mountings.” 

Annesley took the “ spray thing ” from her out- 
stretched hand. She was two steps above him 
as he stood at the foot of the staircase, and this 
brought her head a little higher than his. As her 
fingers touched his open palm he just glanced up 
into her face once more ; and it struck her that he 
was looking very tired about the eyes. A third 
person, had such been present, would have probably 
thought he looked stupid, standing there silently. 
But Victoria close to him, the living fascination of 
her making his heart beat heavily, deprived him for 
the moment of any consciousness of how distinctly 
stupid his silence must appear, 


ii 6 


A NEW NOTE. 


His eyes fastened themselves on the picture before 
him — the living picture — which showed him a small, 
delicate face, a cloud of dark hair, a slight, perfect 
figure, leaning a little against the balustrade in a 
characteristic attitude. He saw that her rapid race 
had brightened her eyes and loosened her hair, 
making it a shade more soft and cloudy ; he saw 
that it was, too, responsible for the fluttering of the 
lace, which, where it touched her bosom, rose and fell 
rapidly with the white flesh beneath it. Like the 
action of the sun's rays upon a sensitised plate, 
the picture photographed itself in a flash. Annesley 
turned on his heel, with a faint exclamation, as of 
physical pain. 

“ His head is bad," said the girl to herself. “ I do 
hope the eau-de-Cologne will do your head good," 
she said aloud. 

“ Oh, of course — oh, yes ! Thanks awfully." 

His voice sounded stifled. He did not look at 
her again. He seemed very much engrossed with 
the spray thing, or something. 

“ Good-night, Victoria, and thanks again." He 
forced his head round towards her as he said it, and 
nodded with a faint flicker of a smile about his 
lips, but his eyes were averted. 

“ Good-night, Jerry. You're sure you understand 
that thing?" she added quickly. 

“Oh, quite sure," responded Annesley unhesitat- 
ingly. “ It's a ripper, this thing, and — it's most 
awfully nice of you to give it me." 

He was gone the next moment ; the thick baize 
door slamming behind him with a deep, muffled 
bang. 

He went straight to his room. There he placed 


A NEW NOTE. 


ii 7 

Victoria’s gift on the table with great care. In the 
firelight only, he found some care was necessary. 
But he struck a match and lighted the candles. 
When this was done he shut the door and locked it ; 
and then he drew up a chair to the fire, and, taking 
his new possession off the table, examined it minutely. 
This apparently was productive of considerable satis- 
faction to himself, for as he turned it and twisted 
it, now this way and now that, his eyes and his 
lips smiled again and again. He looked over his 
shoulder presently, as if he expected to see some one 
staring at him out of the shadowy corners of the 
room. But this was plainly impossible, for, in 
another moment, he had raised Victoria's gift to his 
lips and was kissing it passionately. Once, twice, 
thrice, four times, five times — he must have kissed 
it a dozen times at the first start, and a couple of 
dozen more, at intervals, later on. 

When, after the last kiss, he found that his head 
was extraordinarily better, the discovery unquestion- 
ably marks a new departure in therapeutics. 


CHAPTER XII. 


The 27th of November came and went. 

Miss Victoria Leathley’s debut at St. James’s Hall 
was a thing of the past. 

The world — that is to say, the world of music — was 
pretty much where it was before, and Miss Victoria 
Leathley’s place in it was also pretty much what 
it was before. 

Altogether, Victoria Leathley, like many other 
aspiring artists, perhaps like most aspiring artists 
on the first trial-trip, neither won nor lost — neither 
failed nor succeeded. 

Owing to her social status and family connec- 
tions, and to her father’s political reputation, her 
first appearance on a professional platform gave rise 
to a mild flutter of interest and excitement in various 
circles. The circles in question, however, did not 
include those, strictly speaking, of music. 

The curiosity and interest which surrounded the 
new violinist had their origin in the circles imme- 
diately above and immediately below, — to speak 
strictly still, those of music. 

The first gave Victoria the interest of friendship 
and acquaintanceship ; the second, the curiosity 
which buys “ Society journals ” in order to get, at 
second hand, a knowledge of persons not to be 
obtained on the more reliable basis of personal 
intercourse. 


A NEW NOTE 


119 

Putting every cause together, however, the result 
was that St. James's Hall was very well filled on 
the 27th of November, when a fog, which might 
have been cut with a cheese-knife, contributed its 
quota to the cheerfulness of the proceedings. 

Public interest in the occasion indemnified itself, 
perhaps, very fully when it trusted its life and limbs 
to the various vehicles which set it down in Piccadilly 
that day. 

There is not the slightest doubt that an artist is 
sensibly affected by a good or bad house. In this 
respect Victoria Leathley had nothing to complain of. 
Quite a considerable number of the best people 
were in the stalls, and it was evident that, had 
the time of year been June instead of November, a 
still larger proportion of the same would have been 
present. The other parts of the hall were filled to 
equal satisfaction, and there was a fair sprinkling of 
what newspapers of a certain class are given to 
describing as “ dramatic, musical, and artistic 
celebrities." 

All this is no doubt a step in the right direction 
and a pleasing prospect in an artist’s eyes. Never- 
theless, all this will not spell success — at all events, 
if the artist desires that success shall be spelt in 
capital letters. 

It is unquestionably pleasant to feel that on such 
an occasion one has all, or nearly all, the “ best 
people ’’ in the stalls. It is equally pleasant, perhaps 
more than equally pleasant, to know that many of 
the best people are one’s own friends ; while the 
actuality of their belief in one’s artistic pretensions 
being practically demonstrated at the rate of half a 
guinea a seat, is possibly no less a satisfaction. 


120 


A NEW NOTE. 


Nevertheless, even all this will not make a first 
performance so much as a succes d'estime . 

On the morning after her first performance, Victoria 
Leathley did not awake to find herself famous. 
That is what every young untried artist is sublimely 
persuaded will happen to him, or her. The number 
of young artists to whom it has happened would 
scarcely exhaust the fingers of one hand. 

The steeps of Parnassus, to borrow once more the 
time-honoured simile, look very fair to the climber — 
beforehand. The ascent seems but a matter of will 
on the part of him who desires to reach the heights. 
It is only after a considerable portion of time has 
been spent in hard climbing that the fact comes 
home that rough walking, rough stumbling, many 
fruitless steps, and much apparently useless expendi- 
ture of strength, are but the preliminary adjuncts 
of the journey upon which the many set out so 
gaily ; that it is given only to the few — only, indeed, 
to those whose equipment is so full of reserve force 
that it can endure to the end — to reach any ap- 
preciable elevation at all before the night cometh 
wherein all progression is barred for evermore. 

The eyes of youth and strength are blind — shall 
it be said, happily blind ? — to this. They see only 
the way that is so clear, the feet that are so sure, 
the reward that is so glorious. To them the end 
covers all. Who shall disillusion them ? Who shall 
persuade them that the reward so glorious, is glorious, 
perhaps, precisely in proportion to its distance from 
their view? He will do it who tries all things, 
even Time himself. 

Victoria's estimate of her first performance and 
its results was, on the whole, a temperate and a true 


A NEW NOTE. 


121 

one. She may have erred on the side of confidence 
in herself, and in the time to come ; but, after all, 
without a trifle of over-confidence, few artists would 
ever get much beyond the initial step. At all events, 
if she were not actually elated by the initial step, 
neither was she unduly depressed. At least, if she 
were, she didn't show it. She fulfilled the two or 
three engagements of which she had spoken to 
Annesley, thereby, perhaps, more than she was quite 
aware of herself, somewhat steadying her footing 
upon the slippery ascent; and then she went down 
to Eastaston, and the even tenor of her ordinary 
life knew no further interruption till her return to 
town early in the following January. 

Her people were inclined to be faintly triumphant 
when they were not faintly ironical. Victoria con- 
tented herself with pointing out to them that it 
had been they, and not she, who had supposed 
that the sky must fall, or the conditions of English 
Society collapse, because a young woman of good 
family, and without any dire necessity, except the 
impetus given by her own undeniable talent, had 
chosen to work out for herself a tangible career. 
If her relations were under the impression that she 
was now convinced of the error, or the absurdity of 
her ways, they were undeceived. She had no more 
intention of turning back now than she had had 
six months before. On the contrary, her deter- 
mination was, if anything, more firmly riveted by 
the discovery that the world is not waiting with 
open arms to seize every fresh candidate for its 
favour, and, merely upon the newcomer’s introduc- 
tion, to elevate him upon its shoulders, and bear 
him above his fellows in open triumph. 


122 


A NEW NOTE. 


Victoria said little about it, but possibly, like the 
bird of tradition, she thought the more. 

When a small boy, hitherto perhaps a unit of 
some importance in his own family circle, goes to 
Eton or Harrow, or any other big public school, he 
straightway learns that, outside his family circle, he is 
a unit, an infinitesimal unit, of no importance whatso- 
ever. In other words, he finds his level. A profes- 
sional career, as a rule, promotes a similar discovery. 

Victoria Leathley probably needed to find her 
level as much as any other member of the human 
family. Her new life would, if it did nothing else, 
enable her to do this. 

When her old friend and kinswoman again attacked 
her, she found her more temperate, if not a whit 
less resolute, than formerly. 

“ Well, my dear,” she said to her, “ I hope you 
are satisfied ? ” 

“ Perfectly satisfied, thank you.” 

Miss Payne’s eyes sparkled wickedly. 

“You little minx!” she said calmly; she smiled 
ominously as she said it. “ You ought to be married 
and getting your first baby through its teething by 
this time.” 

It is not, on the whole, remarkable that the young 
people of Miss Payne’s acquaintance should have 
sometimes found that woman of the caustic tongue 
a very terrible old lady indeed. 

Victoria laughed, and told her she was a perfect 
dear l 


CHAPTER XIII. 


VICTORIA went back to London in January, and 
during the ensuing months she pleased herself 
with the assurance that she had definitely adopted, 
and was making her way in, the profession of 
Music. She lived at her father’s house in Rutland 
Gardens; that he insisted upon, and she was mag- 
nanimous enough to give up her way upon what 
she considered a small point, in return for obtaining 
it in essential considerations. Her father, whose 
attendance at the House of Commons entailed 
his constant presence in London, was with her, 
and they both, nearly every week, ran down to 
Eastaston from Friday to Monday. There was no 
reason why Victoria should not as easily have run 
down from Tuesday to Thursday, or from Monday 
to Wednesday ; but the Friday-to-Monday period 
commended itself to her as the legitimate exeat, 
so to speak, of professional persons, and as she was 
now a professional person of the most serious 
aspirations, everything pertaining to her position 
was of the utmost importance. 

When Whitsuntide came round, however, she 
condescended to take a holiday of some days’ 
duration, and she arrived at Eastaston with her 
father, announcing to her sister-in-law and some 
friends they had with them that she had left her 
fiddle and her faculties in town, and meant to 

123 


124 


A NEW NOTE. 


do nothing as assiduously as she had been doing 
everything else lately. 

Annesley had no chance of Whitsuntide at 
Eastaston. He was obliged to go to Ireland to 
entertain a Unionist personage of great importance. 
So he spent the festive season at his own place, 
Castle Connaught, where he had a party of men 
to meet the Unionist personage, who had gone over 
to Ireland, it was popularly believed, to inspect 
light railways, and form a right judgment on the 
Irish Question in a visit of nine days to a country 
house. The Unionist personage filled up the nine 
days very much to his satisfaction, in shooting 
rooks, smoking innumerable cigars, and consuming 
a gentlemanly number of whiskeys-and-sodas. He 
returned to England convinced that a country which 
manufactures a national beverage of such unsur- 
passed excellence as Irish whiskey has, whatever 
else be urged against it, one point in its favour. 

Annesley took the party to a couple of race- 
meetings which happened to come off within reach, 
and the Unionist personage made an edifying 
speech later on to his constituents in England, in 
which the defence of that much abused individual, 
the Irish landlord — who ought to be a saint, if 
martyrdom canonises — was undertaken, on the plea 
of “ personal observation ” and “ unbiassed opinion.” 

So Annesley did his duty to his country, and 
was bored to death by it, and found his reward in 
losing his best chance, for many months to come, 
of satisfactory intercourse with Victoria. 

Victoria, on the other hand, was having a very 
good time. There is this much advantage in keeping 
heart-whole ; it enables one to enjoy the ordinary 


A NEW NOTE. 


125 


small pleasures of life so much better. She found 
many small pleasures in her path just then. The 
weather was lovely, the country was looking very 
pretty, roses had come into blow in the Dutch 
garden, and the avenue of beeches was a green 
aisle of tender foliage. She walked in the green 
aisle more than once, yet not once did she give 
Annesley a thought. 

Conway Keppel was staying with them. Conway 
Keppel amused Victoria. He was her cousin. He 
didn’t want to marry her. They understood one 
another, and had many interests in common. 

But just at this time Conway Keppel seemed to 
her to be a trifle out of sorts. The systematically 
philosophical attitude towards things in general, to 
which he habitually trained himself, looked as if 
now and then it were in danger of subversion. 
Victoria thought she detected a note of petulance 
in his whimsical way of regarding existence and 
most matters incidental to it. 

He was sitting with her one morning in the 
library, where she was employed in arranging news- 
paper cuttings relating to her own performances in a 
large scrap-book. He was reclining in the depths of 
an arm-chair ; his eyes were closed. The morning 
was sunny. Victoria wondered if he were asleep. 

He opened his eyes quite suddenly, and his lips 
at the same moment. 

“ Relations,” he observed — he glanced round the 
room as he spoke, but they had the latter to them- 
selves, — “ relations, my dear Victoria, are one of the 
blots in our defective social system.” 

“ Thanks so much,” said Victoria at this point ; 
but he took no notice of the interruption. 


126 


A NEW NOTE. 


“ My scheme for the Dis-improvement of the 
Human Race,” he continued gravely, “includes the 
abolition of human relationships. Think ” — he 
closed his eyes as if in dreamy anticipation of the 
joy which his words conjured up — “ think of what 
existence will mean under such conditions. When 
Chesterfield said that life would be bearable but 
for its pleasures, he only uttered a half-truth, he 
should have added, ‘ and — one’s relations.’ ” 

“ There is a magazine, I believe,” remarked 
Victoria, “called The British Parent. You should 
send these reflections to The British Parent .” 

Conway Keppel opened his eyes once more, and 
sat up — literally, not figuratively. 

“ By Jove ! ” he exclaimed. “ The very thing ! It 
would simply double the circulation.” 

“ What ? of the parents ? ” 

But Mr. Keppel’s thoughts shot past this feeble 
attempt at wit without recognition. 

“ Every British son and daughter would buy that 
British Parent. Yes” — he closed his eyes again, 
and sank back with a finite smile — “that British 
Parent would be — er — sold. And it would not ” 
— his accents grew speculative and dreamy — “ it 
would not be for the first time. I shall consider 
your suggestion,” he continued seriously. “ I have 
a profound sympathy for ” 

“ The British Parent ? ” 

“ No ; for the owners of British Parents. / am 
the owner of a British Parent ; in point of fact, I am 
the owner of two British Parents. The responsibility, 
to say nothing of the constant friction, is awful. 
The conditions of life will never be really enjoyable 
until the British Parent is resolved into a historic 


A NEW NOTE. 


I27 


reminiscence; very effective — under a glass shade 
in the British Museum, with a label something like 
this : ‘ Bsh. Pt., Early Victorian, Very Rare. No, 
don’t laugh, please. Think of me. I have spent 
some of the best years of my life educating, or 
endeavouring to educate, two British Parents. I 
am reluctantly forced to the conclusion that any 
such endeavour is hopeless. I get a letter this 
morning — a short letter, consisting principally of 
profane interpolations in the original text, to the 
effect that I (in the writer’s opinion) am not properly 
‘ taking my stand ’ upon the House of Lords. What 
is possible in the case of the writer of such a letter 
as that? What can I possibly reply? Should I 
reply, as I have already done more than once, by 
pointing out that, in all probability, there will very 
soon be no House of Lords to take a stand upon, it 
would only lead to such exacerbation of prevailing 
excitement as to — er — to — make matters exceedingly 
uncomfortable for me . I get another letter, this 
morning also — a long letter, in a style of handwriting 
called, nobody knows why, the Italian style — and 
not divided into paragraphs. In this letter, wrapped 
up in a series of wildly discursive and, I regret to 
say, very faulty grammatical sentences and paren- 
theses, I am recommended to marry — to marry . If 
the British Parent or Parents have nothing to offer 
one but the House of Lords and Matrimony, there 
is no reason to look upon the British Parent as 
anything but a complete and grotesque failure. The 
failure to educate one’s parents is one of the most 
sickening disappointments which meets us even in 
this world of sickening disappointments. I confess 
I see no hope for the British Parent. The House 


128 


A NEW NOTE. 


of Lords ! Marriage ! Even after several years of 
intercourse with me! Solomon took considerable 
pains to formulate his views as to how to train up 
a child. I should like to have had his advice as 
to how to train up a parent. Possibly he found 
it necessary to keep his advice to himself. Solomon 
was profoundly astute ; he probably perceived that 
his public wouldn't stand it. There is so much 
sentiment mixed up with the matter. Antique 
institutions gather sentiment around them as antique 
structures gather ivy. Both the ivy and the senti- 
ment are perhaps picturesque, but they are both, 
unfortunately, parasitic." He sighed. “One really 
requires the patience of ” 

“Job,” suggested Victoria helpfully. 

“Job?” repeated her cousin. “My dear girl, 
Job never owned a British Parent. No, no ; Job 
isn't in it. One needs a higher height of high 
heroic thing-um-bob with ” — he groaned — “ British 
Parents who insist upon the House of Lords and 
Marriage.” 

“Talking of marriage,” observed Victoria, “I 
shouldn't be surprised to hear any day that Ada 
Barclay was going to marry that little man in the 
17th Hussars.” 

She spoke cheerfully, and smiled pleasantly as 
she made this announcement. 

Conway Keppel flung himself back in his chair. 

“Man in the 17th Hussars?” He spoke a trifle 
shortly. “ Do you mean that chap Hatchard ? ” 

Victoria smiled with unabated pleasantness, inti- 
mating in a word that that was so. 

“ He’s been about with her a lot,” she added ; “ and 
I know her people would like it.” 


A NEW NOTE. 


129 


Mr. Keppel folded his arms, and stared at his feet. 
When he spoke again it was with a deliberateness 
that approached languor. 

“Girls,” he said — he kept his eye fixed on the 
toe of his boot — “should not marry men in the 
cavalry. It should not be allowed. Men in the 
cavalry are a bad lot. Miss Barclay is too young 
and too — too — sympathetic for a man in the 
cavalry.” 

“ I can’t see that a man in the cavalry is, as a 
rule, worse than a man anywhere else,” remarked 
Victoria ; but she avoided looking at him directly. 

“ Oh, pardon me. A good deal worse. One 
knows that beyond all question. It is an accepted 
fact. Why, eminent lady-novelists always have ’em 
in for their worst models. The bold, bad man of 
smashing dashing villainy — that’s the eminent lady- 
novelist’s cavalry soldier. Knowing this, can you 
contemplate calmly any girl marrying one of them ? 
I can’t. Hatchard ” — the tone of his voice changed 
here violently — “ is a blazing ass ! The idea of a 
fool like that even imagining that a girl like Miss 
Barclay would marry him is absurd.” 

“ Not at all,” remarked Victoria with composure ; 
“ at least, I don’t fancy Ada will look at it in that 
way. She’s very romantic, you know.” 

“ Romantic ! Oh, Lord ! romantic about a chap in 
the 17th Hussars, with a waxed moustache ! ” 

“Oh, he’s shaved that off,” Victoria interposed 
reassuringly. “ Moustaches — certainly waxed ones — 
are rather off colour now, so Hugh tells me.” 

“ I don’t care,” was the response. “ He’s a fool, 
and an ass, and a snob — a grinning, gibbering, brain- 
less ass.” 


9 


130 


A NEW NOTE. 


The speaker flung himself about a good deal in 
the depths of his big chair. 

“ Girls/’ said Victoria, with apparently a want 
of tact, “ do as a rule like soldiers— specially the 
cavalry/’ 

She did not quite catch the remark which followed, 
but it seemed to her that it sounded very like “ Damn 
the cavalry ! ” 

He stood up, and kicked over a footstool. 

“ A girl like — er — like Miss Barclay ; a girl with 
her — intelligence, and general appreciation of— of— 
cleverness, and — er — that sort of thing, would go 
stark staring mad in a week.” 

“ Oh, I hope not,” murmured Victoria softly. 

“ If she found herself married to a chap like that 
infernal fool Hatchard. Talk about being mated 
with a clown ! By Jove, it’s a libel on clowns. Clowns 
are no end of clever Johnnies. Cleverest chap I 
ever saw in my life was a clown at ” — the speaker s 
voice trailed off so much, that Victoria was left 
in ignorance of the exact locality of the clown's 
whereabouts ; but perhaps on the whole this didn’t 
matter. “ Miss — Miss Barclay might marry any- 
body ! ” 

“ Oh, certainly,” acquiesced Victoria. “ At all events, 
she may, and I am sure she will, marry somebody. 
It will probably be Captain Hatchard. If it is, she 
will do very well, specially nowadays, when one gets 
so shaky as to whether the supply will go round.” 

“ Oh ” (something) — (the word ejaculated was not 
very clear, but it unfortunately gave Victoria the 
impression that the speaker meant to say “ rot ! ”). 

Victoria, you are talking like an idiot ! ” 

I am sorry you should think so” — she took no 


A NEW NOTE. 


131 

notice of the decided rudeness of the last remark. 
“ But perhaps you would tell me what it is you 
propose.” 

Mr. Keppel started quite perceptibly. If Victoria 
had looked at him she might have seen his cheeks 
crimsoning. Possibly she did see it. Women can 
see a good deal, without looking. 

There was a distinct pause. Then Conway 
Keppel laughed slightly. 

“ Of course it’s no business of mine,” he said 
loftily, after the slight laugh had subsided ; “ but 
I must confess that I hate to see two people boxed 
up together for the rest of their lives who are 
utterly unsuited to each other. Miss Barclay is 
a girl of singular — er — intelligence ; she grasps 
what one says to her with quite — er — remarkable 
understanding. It is monstrous to think of a girl 
like that being the wife of a snob like Hatchard.” 

A pretty long silence succeeded this. Victoria 
went on calmly with her book of newspaper cuttings. 
Her companion began walking up and down the 
room. The library was not a large room by any 
means. By the time, therefore, he had gone up 
and down from end to end about a dozen times, 
in a tireless fashion, that recalled to Victoria a 
hungry tiger she had seen at the Zoo, she felt that 
she had had enough of it for the present. The sun- 
shine was very hot. Conway was shaking the floor, 
and the walls were beginning to whirl round before 
her eyes. She shut up the scrap-book with a 
decisive bang, and gathered up the scattered papers. 
Her movements arrested those of her companion. 

“ I say,” he exclaimed, in evident surprise, “ are 
you going off ? ” 


i3 2 


A NEW NOTE. 


“Yes, I think I must,” she replied. But she 
paused all the same, with the scrap-book and the 
newspapers in her hand. 

“ I am afraid,” returned her companion, with much 
deliberation, “that I shall have to run up to town 
after all.” 

He was fingering his tie, as he said it, with one 
hand, and brushing some imaginary dust off his 
waistcoat with the other. 

“ Indeed ! ” said Victoria. “ Isn’t that rather 
a bore ? There’s not a soul in town this 
week.” 

“ Oh, that has nothing to do with it ” — he spoke 
with extreme decision. “ The fact is, I’m extremely 
busy about one or two things.” 

“Yes — really?” Victoria’s voice betrayed an ad- 
mirably polite amount of interest. 

“Yes. There is such a lot — er — to be done, you 
know. And Holroyd depends on me a good deal. 
There’s nothing for it, as far as I can see, but 
to go up.” 

“ Well, in that case, I suppose you must.” 

“ As to what you were saying about — er — Miss 
Barclay. I really don’t think she could possibly 
bring herself to marry Hatchard. I daresay he’ll 
have the cheek to ask her, but I’m equally certain 
she’ll refuse him.” 

Victoria bent down and picked up a long trail 
of newspaper that had escaped from the waste-paper 
basket. Her face was a little pink when she 
raised it again, and her lips were quivering — no doubt 
from stooping quickly. 

“ Extraordinary thing ” — he cleared his throat as 
he spoke, more than once — “how pig-headed old 


A NEW NOTE. 


133 


Barclay is about that house in Green Street That 
house has as bad a record as can well be. Yet 
no power on earth will persuade him to leave it. 
They'll all die of diphtheria one of these days.” 

His companion became conscious of a keen sense 
of amusement at the transparent evolutions of the 
male mind. 

“ It is, quite dreadful ! ” she said. “ They’ve all gone 
to Paris,” she added, with an irrelevance rather 
peculiar. “ I believe they don’t come back till the 
sixth, or so.” 

Mr. Keppel appeared not to hear. He looked so 
unconscious, he would have deceived almost anybody 
except Victoria. 

However, he went to London that evening. His 
business there was evidently excessive, for he 
returned to Eastaston in time for dinner on the 
following day. 

He said Holroyd, like all the rest of the world, 
was out of town. He imparted this interesting piece 
of information to the assembled company in general, 
at dinner. Victoria understood that it was at the 
same time directed to her in particular. 

Till Holroyd returned, his, Conway Keppel’s, 
business was in abeyance. Holroyd was a great 
editor — a very great editor indeed. Holroyd was 
understood to be Conway’s patron saint, or rather, 
perhaps, his tutelary deity. Everything, Holroyd’s 
neophyte added, was in abeyance. 

“Yes,” said Victoria suddenly — so suddenly that 
her sister-in-law stared at her. “ Quite so — in abey- 
ance.” 

Mr. Keppel put up his eyeglass, and looked at her 
mildly. She looked back at him with a guileless smile. 


134 


A NEW NOTE. 


‘Conway” — she spoke sweetly — “if at any time 
you should want to look — your best, you know — 
thoroughly effective, in fact — make use of that eye- 
glass. If I were a girl, I couldn’t resist that eye- 
glass.” 

“ Certainly,” said Mrs. Edmund Leathley, “ for so 
clever a person, you do sometimes talk the greatest 
nonsense, Victoria ? ” 

“ It is the unbending of a great mind,” responded 
Mr. Keppel smoothly. “ Persons of acute intelligence 
find a strange relaxation in conversation of a trifling, 
even of an absurd, triviality ; in short, in nonsense.” 

“ Well, I never can see anything amusing in 
nonsense,” Mrs. Edmund Leathley observed, with 
complete decisiveness. “ Never. It is waste of time, 
and lowers the tone of one’s — one’s — er — mind, you 
know.” 

“ Edmund,” remarked Mr. Keppel, with a sudden 
access of animation, “ has got a new story. Get him 
to tell it you, Gertrude. I’ll remind him to-night. 
It’s really too good to lose — for you to lose.” 

He looked at his cousin’s wife with a smile of 
amiability that shone even though his eyeglass. “ I 
beg your pardon ” — addressing Victoria across the 
table. “ Did you speak ? ” 

“ No ; at least, I merely asked how long your 
business would remain in abeyance.” 

“ Till old Holroyd returns.” 

“Ye — es,” said Victoria, still sweetly. “That will 
be on the sixth, or so, will it not ? ” 

There was no reply. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


The end of the Whitsuntide recess found Victoria 
once more at Rutland Gardens ; this time with 
some additional members of her family to keep her 
company. 

She was understood by the world in general to be 
working very hard. The world in general meant, in 
her case, her own circle of acquaintances and friends ; 
for, as yet, the greater world which lay without had 
scarcely become aware of her existence. Nevertheless, 
she was satisfied that her career was following the 
usual course. Progress in any profession was, she 
assured herself, invariably slow ; but so long as it 
was sure, its being slow could be endured. 

Art is long — very long — in winning recognition. 
But Victoria was satisfied — or said she was, which 
did as well, so far as the world was concerned. 

If she was not yet famous, she found, at any rate, 
that her services were a good deal in requisition, 
especially by the promoters of charity concerts. It 
is a very fine thing to get a young lady, well known 
in Society, and the daughter of a prominent politician, 
to play the violin at such functions. Victoria, to be 
sure, required, and insisted on payment, calling herself 
a professional ; but as she handed the cheque on each 
occasion to the charity in question, the promoters 
found no difficulty in gratifying her demands. The 
fashionable charities soon discovered in her a sure 

x 35 


A NEW NOTE. 


136 

draw, and the professional musicians, who are 
expected to contribute gratuitously to the aid of 
such (in spite of their profession), found themselves 
a good deal relieved of the burden of beneficence. 

There was a concert of this sort, one among the 
many, given at a very notable house, not a hundred 
miles north, south, east, or west of Park Lane, late 
in June. The concert was given in aid of the Irish 
Ladies, who have become very distressed, but very 
fashionable — as a charity — in London, during the last 
decade or so. 

Everybody, who is anybody, nowadays has come 
to the relief of the Distressed Irish Ladies ; and one 
of the readiest avenues for the soul which seeks 
to mount on high — in Society — may be found, if 
judiciously sought, by means of Ireland's distressful 
daughters. 

So everybody who was anybody, and a good 
many who were not, assembled in their strength, 
and crushed their way up the staircase to the 
magnificent rooms, where for the modest sum of 
one guinea they were each provided with a seat 
and the pleasure of listening to a programme of 
music which the directors of the “ Monday Pops.," 
for instance, would not have dared to offer, even 
at prices arranged on the most popular scale 
conceivable. But then the Monday Pops, are not 
a charity, and the Crystal Palace is not near Park 
Lane ; and to be fashionably charitable or charitably 
fashionable — it is immaterial which way you put it 
— means that “ you pays your money ” accordingly. 

Charities, like everything else, go in and out 
of fashion, and if a charity is not up to date, or 
in Society, all that can be said for it is that it 


A NEW NOTE 


137 


will involve its patrons in an investment of money, 
without yielding that rate of sound interest in 
return which is so pleasing a feature of properly 
manipulated beneficence. 

But on this occasion there was no mistake. First 
of all, everybody was there, Royalty included ; real, 
royal, superlative Royalty, too — for, as everyone 
knows, there are differences of Royalty, just as 
there are differences of everything else. It was no 
doubt a matter of satisfaction to all concerned — the 
prudent promoters, and the prudent investors, and 
the Irish Ladies, whom nobody has yet accused 
of prudence — to feel that they had secured what 
the shops would call “ the first-rate article,” when 
so many have to be content with what the shops 
would also call “ cheap foreign imitations.” 

The assemblage, in short, left nothing to be 
desired. There is no need to add anything further 
on this score. Are not their names, and their 
dresses, written in the chronicles of the Queen , the 
ladies' newspapers, and the society paragrapher ? 

Victoria and her fiddle found their way to the 
platform in due course. Victoria, to say the truth, 
was not deeply enamoured of this sort of perform- 
ance. But she believed that the oftener she played 
in public, the better she was advancing her pro- 
fessional prospects. 

The concert ran its appointed course. It included 
the customary quota of sentimental ballads, sung 
most unsentimentally by amateur artistes — with 
titles, if possible. It included the child-performer, 
who has now been let loose upon a patient public, 
and whose talents are on a par with those of the 
“ Infant Phenomenon ” of the celebrated Crummies 


138 


A NEW NOTE. 


Company, in that they (the talents) “are not to 
be imagined, but must be seen to be ever so 
faintly appreciated.” It included, too, the young 
lady who wears her hair cut short, and recites 
dismal poetry of a second-rate description, and the 
young gentleman whose hair wants cutting very 
badly, and who sings comic songs of no de- 
scription whatever. 

There was no one in the room more amused or 
more contemptuous than Mr. Louis Loevio, who had 
arrived towards the close, in order to take part in 
a glee with which the whole performance was 
to terminate. He felt, too, half pleased and half 
scornful at his own share in the proceedings. He 
had, indeed, been called upon at the last moment 
to fill the place of a more notable singer, who 
had become suddenly indisposed the day before 
the concert. This is a regrettable accident which 
sometimes happens to notable professional singers 
on the eve of charity concerts. 

Nobody knew Loevio, and he knew nobody, so 
that when, in due course, he took his part in the glee, 
not one person in the audience probably recognised 
any special excellence in the voice of the man who 
sang the tenor part. 

Loevio was destined in a very short time, had they 
known it, to be the idol of their ears, if not of their 
hearts ; but as yet they didn’t know it. As yet they 
had not been told to admire Loevio. You can’t 
expect audiences — in Society — to admire until they 
are duly bidden. 

So Loevio came in and sang his part, and was 
going away again, a bit irritated, and sulky too, 
for it’s not the pleasantest experience imaginable 


A NEW NOTE. 


139 


to find yourself the odd man out in an assemblage 
of persons all apparently on good terms with each 
other and with everybody except yourself. 

There was a crush on the landing. Loevio, in 
the middle of the crush, found himself face to face 
with almost the only person known to him in the 
crowd. He found himself face to face with Mrs. 
Edmund Leathley. 

Loevio made — scarcely a step ; the crowd was too 
great for that — but involuntarily an impulse, so to 
speak, forward. Fully persuaded that he knew 
Mrs. Edmund Leathley, he was also fully persuaded 
that she knew him. Loevio's social education was 
— as yet — imperfect. He very nearly held out his 
hand. Then he became aware that Mrs. Edmund 
Leathley's eyes were looking past him. She didn't 
turn away her head. She merely looked past him, 
that was all. 

There is an art in that branch of social tactics. 

Loevio turned white. 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley was shaking hands with 
a young. man at Loevio's elbow. 

Loevio looked straight in front of him. 

A voice close to him made him start. A clear 
voice, with a touch of coldness in its rapid accents. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Loevio? ” 

Loevio looked round. The colour rushed into 
his face. 

“ Isn't there a crowd here to-day ? And it's rather 
a bore, but I can't find my violin-case.” 

Victoria, as she said it, looked at him with a smile. 
She looked away immediately. 

Loevio bit his lip, which was quivering. Tears 
shone in his blue eyes. 


140 


A NEW NOTE. 


She was touched. 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley, her face wreathed in 
smiles, was conversing amicably with the young man 
whom she had singled out the moment before. 

Victoria's mouth hardened. She glanced at her 
sister-in-law once, and she turned to Loevio. Her 
eyes looked dark, and there was a sparkle of 
mischief in them. 

“ I wonder — do you think you could help me to 
find it ? Oh, thanks so much." 

She added this as Loevio found his voice, and 
could assure her that nothing would give him greater 
pleasure. 

By the time the violin-case was found, he had, 
too, recovered his usual fluency. 

They walked down the stairs together. 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley was waiting impatiently 
for Victoria. Victoria, with Loevio beside her, 
and a footman behind with the violin-case, proceeded 
leisurely. 

Loevio's heart was beating a trifle quickly. He 
looked at Victoria, hesitated, looked again. His 
face flushed slightly. 

“ I think I heard you say, Miss Leathley, that you 
take an interest in antique musical instruments ? ” 

His voice was a little husky as he said it ; his 
head was in a whirl, and his quick emotions were 
all aroused at Victoria's marked disclaiming of any 
lot or part in Mrs. Edmund Leathley's attitude. 
But it was a rare opportunity, and Loevio never 
missed an opportunity if he knew it. 

Victoria turned her eyes quickly upon him. 

“ Oh, yes ; in fact, I'm trying to get together a 
collection on my own account." 


A NEW NOTE. 


141 

She spoke eagerly, warmly ; she saw Mrs. Edmund 
Leathley in the hall. 

“ I — I have a very curious old viol which I should 
very much like to show you.” 

Victoria smiled, and looked interested. 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley was walking out at the 
half-door to her carriage. 

“ It's a quaint old thing ; it was given to my grand- 
mother — we're a musical family ” (he smiled frankly) 
— “ under rather pathetic circumstances.” 

“ Indeed?” 

“Yes. It is, I fancy, a specimen of what was 
called the old ‘ viola d'Amore.' ” 

Victoria looked more interested. 

“ Has it the sympathetic strings ? ” she asked 
quickly. 

“ Oh, the devil ! ” said Loevio to himself. “ It — 
er — has seven — yes, seven strings,” he replied. He 
laughed slightly. 

“ I am afraid,” he continued, “ my knowledge of 
these things is very poor, but this old instrument 
of mine has seven strings ; it's larger than the violin, 
or perhaps I should say it is clumsier in shape, 
and it has a curiously carved human head at the 
top of the — scroll. Isn't it the scroll ? " 

“Yes,” said Victoria. “It must be, I think, one 
of the ordinary treble viols of the last century. 
They were made very much in France, and were 
very popular for a time. I think it must be one 
of these, not the ‘ viola d' Amore ' ; but if you look 
under the bridge you will see whether the arrange- 
ment for the sympathetic strings is there. These 
were fine metal strings, sometimes five, sometimes 
seven, and even more. It was rather a clumsy 


142 


A NEW NOTE. 


device for heightening the range and tone, but 
without them your viol cannot be a ‘ viola d’ Amore.’ ” 

“ I shall examine it,” said Loevio, smiling. 

They were standing now at the foot of the 
staircase. 

Victoria, her hand resting on the end of the 
banister, hesitated for a moment. Her eyes were 
looking onward through the open door at the 
carriage, and Mrs. Edmund Leathley waiting for her. 
She turned once more to Loevio as he ceased speaking. 

“ Perhaps you would come and see us some day ? ” 
she said quickly, “ and bring the viol. I should 
think it very kind of you. My father takes as 
great interest as I do in those sort of antique 
instruments ; and I know he would be very much 
delighted to see yours.” 

Loevio’s heart gave a leap. But he spoke with 
admirable coolness. 

“ I should be charmed,” was all he said. 

“Oh, thanks.” She smiled. “You know our 
house, don't you? — Rutland Gardens. Yes, I am 
very often in, generally pretty late, between five 
and seven. Good-bye.” 

Loevio bowed till he almost salaamed. In another 
moment he saw her carriage roll away. 

In another moment he, too, had left the house. 

It was now pretty late, but he started off, 
per ’bus, from Oxford Street to a very different 
part of the town. There he threaded his way 
through a number of streets, each, perhaps, dingier 
than the other, until finally he entered one which 
formed a cul-de-sac , and which was dingier and 
grimier and more odoriferous than any of its 
neighbours. 


A NEW NOTE. 


143 


Half-way down this street Loevio paused. He 
had reached the door of a small shop. The small 
shop was situated in a small house, that seemed 
to retreat modestly into the background from those 
which abutted on it at either side. A narrow window, 
that might have been cleaned with advantage, 
revealed a curious collection of second-hand articles 
of much variety, from diamond ornaments to old 
tooth-brushes. Over the door, painted very crookedly, 
was the name “ Hermann,” and underneath the 
latter, in still more crooked letters, the word 
“ Dealer.” 

It was not a pawn-shop, although transactions 
bordering upon that method of commercial dealing 
took place occasionally within its narrow walls. 

Loevio pushed open the glass door, to which a 
sharp bell was attached, and entered. 

A very dirty person behind the counter looked 
up at the sharp ting of the bell. The very dirty 
person, who was smoking a meerschaum pipe, had 
the peculiar facial conformation, and, when he spoke, 
the thickness of intonation, which we associate with 
the Chosen People. 

Loevio nodded. 

“ Well, Hermann, I want to have another look at 
that old viol,” he said abruptly. 

“ Ou, ah, the violsh.” 

He puffed placidly at the meerschaum pipe in 
the intervals of speech. 

“ Now.” 

He laid an old viol on the top of the glass case 
which covered the counter. 

“ Jolly shabby,” said Loevio curtly. 

The dirty person shook his head and waved his 


*44 


A NEW NOTE. 


curiously dirty hands, upon one finger of which a 
pretty old ruby ring flashed rosily. 

“ Schieabby,” he repeated. “ Vot vould you expec’ 
of a — an insthrooment — an insthrooment two ’undred 
an’ fifty year ole ? ” 

“ Tell that to the Horse Marines,” said Loevio. 

" Oh, veil, you may larf, but I know .” 

Loevio made no further comment ; he was ex- 
amining the viol. The latter looked a good deal 
the worse for the wear. The back and sides, which 
were thickly encrusted with dirt, had evidently 
been formed of parallel staves of sycamore and 
cedar woods, or painted, perhaps, so to appear. They 
were very much scored and chipped in places, from 
rough usage, and the classical features of the female 
head carved at the scroll had suffered a good deal, 
a broad scratch dividing the lady’s Grecian nose 
nearly in two. 

“ Well, old boy,” said Loevio pleasantly, “ when 
do you expect to sell this hurdy-gurdy ? ” 

“ Ou, any day, any day.” 

Loevio flicked the wood with his fingers. 

“ It's dead rotten ; it’ll go to pieces.” 

“ Naw, naw.” 

“ What’ll ye take for it, eh ? ” 

The dirty person considered. Loevio grinned 

“Veil, veil, that violsh is a beauty. That violsh 
in Vardour Sthreet vouldn’t go undaire ten pound, 
twenty pound.” 

Loevio laughed loudly. 

“ But we’re not in Wardour Street, my boy.” 

“ Ou, veil, naw. Veil ” — he stroked his chin — “ veil, 
I don’t mind lettin’ you ’ave it at two pounds ten.” 

Loevio looked at him. 


A NEW NOTE. 


145 


“ Veil, look 'ere, five — two pound five” 

Loevio drew in his tongue under his teeth, and 
chirruped. 

“You old thief!” he remarked pleasantly. “I'll 
give you a sovereign for the lot, and a damn good 
bargain ye'll make of it.” 

“ Coot, coot ! for a violsh. Mein Gott ! for a violsh 
two 'underd and fifty year ole ! I tell you I couldn't 
for look, this ish 'ow it ish. I got that violsh 
from a poor ole man, to sell for 'im as besht I can.” 

Loevio here winked slowly. Evidently he was 
on terms of mutual intimacy with the dirty person. 
The latter did not smile. He waved his dirty 
hands again over the viol, as if he were making 
hypnotic passes. 

“Oh, ver veil, but I tell you I couldn't. My 
conshionce vouldn’t allow me.” 

“ Blow your conscience ! ” said Mr. Loevio easily. 

“ But look ; you and I are friends, and I vill oblige. 
Say two pound, two pound.” 

“ Not if I know it,” returned his customer coolly. 
“ Look here, Hermann, don't be a fool. You give 
me that viol. I want it for a young lady who ” 

“ Ou, ah ! Ou, — there'sh alvays a young lady in 
your case.” 

He leered affectionately as he spoke. 

“ Hold your infernal tongue,” said Mr. Loevio 
politely. 

“ I said a lady who's collecting antique musical 
instruments. So don't you play the fool with me, 
d'ye see ? ” 

“ A lady,” repeated the other. “ A connaishure — 
ou, ah ! a connaishure. Oh, I lofe them, the con- 
naishures, they are sho guilesh ” 


10 


146 


A NEW NOTE. 


“ Look here," said Mr. Loevio, taking no notice 
of his friend’s raptures, “ you get this cleaned up a bit. 
I won't have it polished — mind that ; not fiolished, but 
just cleaned." 

“ Yes, ye-es. It vill tak two days." 

“All right, then. I’ll come in the day after to- 
morrow and bring the sovereign." 

The dirty person groaned. 

“ Oh, mein Gott ! vun pound for a violsh two 
’un " 

“ There, shut up ! " said the purchaser calmly. 

“ But, the young — the lady, I mean, vill vant to 
add to her collection, eh ? " 

“No doubt," said Loevio. 

“ Ah, ha ! Veil, / could get her pretty things. Only 
you give me time to — pick them up. You under- 
stand ? ’’ 

He winked and leered again. 

“ Have this ready," was Loevio’s response. “ By- 
by ! " He swung open the bell-ringing door once 
more and left the shop. Then he turned back 
suddenly. He beckoned to the shop’s owner again. 

“ Here," he exclaimed, “ I want that viol for a 
minute." 

He took it into his hands and scrutinised it 
carefully. 

There was no arrangement under the bridge for 
sympathetic strings, such as Victoria had spoken of. 

Loevio laid it down. 

“ So it’s not the ‘ viola d’ Amore ’ after all,” he 
said to himself. “ She was right ; but — never mind, 
perhaps it’ll do as well." 

The dirty person wondered what he was grinning 

at. 



He took it into his hands and scrutinised it carefully . — Page 146 



























































































' 






























'• V - 
































, 
















































CHAPTER XV. 


On the day following the concert, Victoria was 
sitting in her room writing out exercises in counter- 
point. She was congratulating herself on the amount 
of work which the blessed interval between five and 
seven o’clock in the afternoon permits persons in 
her position in the world to get through, when she 
heard some one tapping at her door. 

Victoria, with a sigh, said “ Come in ! ” and forth- 
with a young lady did come in. 

The young lady had bright, crinkly hair, was 
beautifully dressed in the freshest of summer 
toilettes, and had a very coquettish hat crowning the 
top of her fair head, and making believe to shade 
her fair face from the rays of such sunshine as may 
be experienced in England in the month of June. * 

“ Ada ! ” exclaimed Victoria. Her voice was 
agreeably cordial, and she jumped up at once and 
pushed the counterpoint exercises from under her 
hand. 

Miss Barclay advanced quickly and greeted her 
friend with a kiss. 

“ I sha’n’t interrupt you, shall I ? ” she said, in her 
little, young, eager accents. “We are going to the 
Thursbys’ at half-past five or so, but mother has 
had to go to some Employment of Women meeting, 
or something of the sort, for half an hour first, and 
she said she’d pick me up here, and I said—” 

547 


148 


A NEW NOTE. 


The eager accents paused here with extreme 
suddenness. 

Victoria smiled. 

“Yes? And you said ? ” She repeated it twice. 

“ I said I'd come and see Victoria,” concluded the 
first speaker, with relief, but not, it is to be feared, 
with truth. 

Victoria smiled again, and pushed her visitor into 
a low, wide, wicker chair, perching herself, at the 
same time, upon one arm of it. 

“ Well, darling ? ” 

She flipped the brim of the coquettish hat as she 
spoke. 

“ Well, Victoria?” was the response. 

The occupant of the wicker chair glanced up as 
she repeated the words. She met the amused 
scrutiny of a pair of small dark eyes looking into 
her own, and she blushed all at once, furiously, 
radiantly, all over her face, as fair-skinned people 
do blush, with a rich, scarlet brilliancy about which 
there is no possible doubt. 

“ Oh, Victoria ! ” — the ejaculation came with a rush 
and a gasp — “ who told you ? ” 

“ Told me ? ” repeated Victoria’s quick accents 
ruthlessly. “Told me what ?” 

“ You do know,” returned Ada Barclay. “ About — 
about — him — me —we — oh ! ” 

“Him, me, we?” repeated Victoria again. “Ada, 
you are refreshingly explicit. But it is beyond me. 
Explain to me, my friend, this thusness .” 

She caught a glimpse of the younger girl’s 
lips. 

“Well, never mind,” she added quickly. “I sha’n’t 
tease you about it. But perhaps -” 


A NEW NOTE. 


149 


She paused, and Miss Barclay looked up in- 
quiringly. 

“ Perhaps ” — the words came slowly — “ er — 

Conway ” 

The coquettish hat started as if it had been shot. 

“He — you — they,” exclaimed the owner of the 
hat. 

“ Ye-es. Go on, Ada.” 

“ Oh, don't? said Miss Barclay pleadingly. " When 
you look like that ” 

Victoria threw her left arm round the speaker’s 
shoulders. 

“You dearest of little girls!” she said pettingly. 
“ I am so glad, both for you and Conway.” 

“ Oh,” with a long-drawn sigh, and a little nod of 
the fair, crinkly head, “ it is so lovely ! ” 

“ I am sure it is,” returned Victoria, with composure. 

“ Oh, Victoria ” — now that the murder was out, 
Miss Barclay’s confidence returned with quite a 
rush — “ oh, Victoria, I wish you could — get — get 
in love. It’s so perfectly delicious, you know, when 
— when they love you back again ! ” 

She laid a small hand in a pale Suede glove 
against Victoria’s breast as she spoke. The latter 
bent her head and kissed her friend. 

“ Now,” pursued Miss Barclay, with much anima- 
tion, “ weren't you surprised ? ” 

Victoria, however, intimated that there were 
occasions in her life when she had been more 
surprised. 

The owner of the fair head drew a long breath. 

“No? Really?” 

She looked quite incredulous as she uttered the 
words, 


A NEW NOTE. 


150 

“ Well, / was — oh, yes, ever so much surprised, 

because, you know, Conway ” She stopped short, 

and blushed bewitchingly. “ Conway ” — she repeated 
it with evident delight in the unaccustomed use of 
his Christian name — “ is so clever, and — and splendid, 
and I’m not anything, don’t you know. Now, if it 
had been you, Victoria ! ” 

Victoria laughed heartily. 

“You’d have been so glad, wouldn’t you?” she 
said, laughing still. 

“ Well, I shouldn’t,” returned Miss Barclay candidly ; 
“ at least, not now!' 

“Oh, don’t apologise,” said Victoria, with fresh 
laughter. 

“ Victoria ” — the tone of her friend’s voice changed 
suddenly — “ he — Conway — told me that I — I was the 
first girl he’d ever wanted to — to marry. Do you 
think that that is true ? I read in some book 
that men always say that sort of thing to girls, 
but that of course it is never really true. Still — I 
don’t think what books say is always true either, 
do you?” 

Victoria was looking at her intently. She was 
thinking that the waves of colour passing and re- 
passing over her fair, bright face made her look 
more appealingly pretty even than usual. 

“ What does your mother say ? ” Victoria asked 
suddenly. 

“ Mother ! Oh, I — haven’t told mother that ; you 
see, one can't, somehow — at least, not those sort of 
things, Victoria.” 

She paused and stumbled a good deal over the 
words. Victoria was silent. 

“ But of course,” resumed the speaker, with another 


A NEW NOTE. 


151 

rapid change of tone, “ she knows about — about 
Conway, and she's so pleased — ever so pleased ! 
And, oh, Victoria, I am to have such a trousseau ! 
Mother has settled that , even if papa rages and 
storms over it.” 

Victoria smiled again. 

“ But, what do you think ? ” inquired her friend 
again. “ I mean about — about what Conway said, 
you know?” 

Victoria raised her eyebrows. 

“ Oh, Conway's a very good sort, Ada ; you may 
take him at his word.” 

An expression of relief passed across Miss Barclay's 
very youthful face. 

“ Conway's not at all a common sort of man, 
Victoria.” 

The speaker's fresh voice had a certain accent of 
reproof in it. 

“ Oh, no ! ” exclaimed Victoria quickly. “ Not by 
any means.” 

Her friend looked at her, but Victoria's face was 
admirably serious. 

“Just think of his writings,” proceeded Miss 
Barclay. The accent of reproof had given place to 
one of dignity now. “Just think of his writings! 
Fancy being able to write like that, Victoria! It's 
very ” 

“Uncommon,” said Victoria. 

“ Most uncommon,” said her friend. “ And, besides, 
I don't think any one would imagine, from seeing 
Conway, that he was so clever, and wrote things. 
I think that's what's so particularly nice about 
Conway.” 

All dignity had fled from Miss Barclay's accents 


152 


A NEW NOTE. 


by this time. They were once more those of her 
young, eager self. She nodded her head emphati- 
cally. 

“So particularly nice — that he doesn’t look a bit 
clever ; at least — you needn’t laugh so, Victoria — 
that isn’t exactly what I mean ; what I do mean 
is, that literary people so often look common 
and grubby. Of course” — she spoke breathlessly 
— “ I admire literary people immensely — especially 
— er — journalists. They’re the most literary, you 
know.” 

“ Oh, certainly,” said Victoria. 

“ Because they’re always writing,” pursued her 
friend, “ every day ; and, besides, people who won’t 
read anything else read the newspapers. Papa never 
reads a book, but he always reads the Times 
he says one gets such common-sense in the 
Times. Conway has written letters to the Times, 
Victoria.” 

“ I have read them, more than once,” returned 
Victoria seriously. 

Miss Barclay threw herself back in the wicker 
chair with a gesture of pleased contentment. 

“ All the same, Victoria, literary people are grubby 
— sometimes.” 

She laughed as she said it. 

“ But they are,” she said again. “ Now Conway 
looks so nice,” she continued complacently ; “ and he 
always wears the right sort of collars, and — all that.” 

This evidently settled the discussion, for she stood 
up and began to rove about the room. At the 
chimney-piece she paused. 

“ What lots of new photos you have got ! ” she 
remarked to Victoria. “ Oh, you have got that one 


A NEW NOTE. 


153 


of him ! I don’t like that one, Victoria. Conway’s 
ever so much nicer-looking than that. It isn’t his 
expression one little bit. He’s going to have a new 
one specially taken for me by that woman who did 
mine when I came out ; and I’m going to have a 
new one of myself taken, too. You shall have them 
both, if they’re good. Why — you’ve actually kept 
that horrid old thing of me ! What a person you 
are for keeping old photographs ! How odd that 
dress looks now! Old photographs are so funny. 
We found some of mother’s last night, and Conway 
would bag one of me ; it was taken when I was 
five. I remember the day so well ! I was dreadfully 
naughty and fidgety, and they took off my shoes 
and stockings, and the photographer stuck me up 
on a silly sort of imitation seaside rocky seat, and I 
yelled and howled, and they gave me some chocolate 
creams to eat, and I came out with the chocolate 
creams all messed up in my fingers, and looking so 
cross and rumpled. Fancy Conway wanting to have 
a silly old photograph like that! Isn’t it dear of 
him, Victoria?” 

Victoria smiled patiently. 

“ But, Victoria, do you think Conway will always 
keep on caring for me like that?” 

Her eyes were fixed on her friend’s pallid face. 
Victoria gave herself up. The question, it was plain, 
should be answered. 

“Of course he will.” 

Victoria spoke emphatically. There is nothing 
like a gallant rush, when you’re about it. 

Miss Barclay once more looked relieved, even 
radiant. 

Victoria’s dark eyes were watching her face. 


154 


A NEW NOTE. 


“Look here, Ada: never anticipate evils. Take 
things as they come. But if, after you’re married, 
you find that Conway has apparently forgotten to 
tell you that you’re an angel, and so on, don’t make 
yourself miserable, that’s all. Very few men do tell 
their wives that they’re angels. As a matter of fact, 
they don’t want angels — for wives ; they’d much rather 
have cooks, most of them.” 

Her friend laughed. 

“You’re an abandoned cynic,” she said, laughing 
again. 

“ Oh, no, dear Ada. If you want a man to love 
you, feed him.” 

“ How can you be so horrid ? ” interposed her 
companion faintly. 

“Yes, my dear,” pursued Victoria, unabashed; 
“and I don’t know any animal that has a hungrier 
roar than your literary lion.” 

Miss Barclay laughed with complacent security. 
She ran across to the window as a little clock 
chimed at the moment. 

“Ah, here is mother and the carriage. I must 
go. Good-bye, you cold-hearted wretch.” 

“You’ll live to bless me yet,” returned her friend ; 
“that is, if you take my advice.” 

Ada Barclay laughed again. 

“ Everybody’s been giving me advice, ever since — 
since this.” 

It was a lame conclusion, and was accompanied 
by a little pout. 

“ How nice ! ” said Victoria. “ Save it all up, Ada, 
and have it on view with the presents. By the way, 
when is it to be?” 

“ What?” 


A NEW NOTE. 


155 


“The wed ” 

“Oh, not for ages and ages\” 

Miss Barclay spoke with vehemence, and blushed 
to match. 

“ I must go,” she resumed, recovering her dignity 
and her colour. “ I must really. Good-bye, Victoria. 
My hat hasn’t got crooked? No? All right. 
Good-bye 

She ran off, smiling. 

Victoria stood in the window and watched her 
as she got into her mother’s victoria and drove 
away in the evening sunshine. The level rays 
lighted up Victoria’s face, and made her eyes blink ; 
but she stood there, drumming on the window-panes 
with her fingers, for some minutes. 

“ I wonder,” she said to herself, “ if it is as good 
as it looks ! ” 

She did not give herself time to wait for an answer, 
whatever it might be, for she walked back to the 
writing-table at the same moment, and took up 
the book upon counterpoint. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


In the space of three years a good deal may happen. 

That space of time had nearly gone by since 
the October day when Annesley had walked with 
Victoria under the beeches at Eastaston, and been 
told that it was to be Art only. 

Nearly three years had run their appointed course. 
Three years of rain and shine, seedtime and harvest, 
life and death. 

Annesley was three years older ; that seemed to 
him pretty much all there was to tell, so far as he 
personally was concerned. Life had gone with him 
much as usual. He had paid his taxes, and had his 
hair cut, and visited his tailor at requisite intervals. 

During the past year he had gone to Baffin’s 
Bay to shoot walruses. Nevertheless, had any one 
asked him about it, as he walked down Piccadilly 
on this chilly day in July, he would have said that, 
after all, shooting walruses off Spitzbergen didn’t 
seem to him to be very much better than shooting 
snipe on his own bogs in Ireland. 

He had gone to Baffin’s Bay because a friend 
had asked him to go, and there seemed no valid 
reason for refusing. He had gone, and he had come 
back. He told himself, not for the first time, that 
there is nothing new under the sun. 

Nevertheless, changes come. 

The past years had brought their appointed portion 


A NEW NOTE. 


157 


as every year, and month, and day, is bound to do. 
They had carried a burden of change to each and 
all, but separately, and in different degrees. 

Victoria Leathley had found them years of steady, 
persevering work. Work, without any very brilliant 
reward. It is true that by sheer, unflagging perse- 
verance she had won a place, at all events, in the 
profession of music. But it could not be said of 
that place, that it was among the stars of the first 
magnitude. Apparently the first magnitude was not 
to be the position for Victoria. Her position exactly 
was that of a violinist of, on the whole, a fair 
reputation — the reputation of the careful, cultured 
artist, who can always be depended upon to give 
you of the best he may possess. 

When Conway Keppel walked out of St. James’s 
Hall, at the conclusion of her first recital, he shook 
his head ; and as he shook his head he said to 
himself, — 

“ She will never be a great violinist.” 

His judgment was a true one, and time had 
verified it. 

Victoria was not a great violinist, nor was she 
any nearer to being one now than she had been 
three years before. 

Nevertheless, to the amazement of most persons 
who knew her, she was content to be a violinist, 
without being great, and to accept a position, and 
do her best to retain it also, which was not of the 
first rank. 

Was this pride ? The pride that is too proud to 
acknowledge even comparative failure? 

Perhaps so. 

On the other hand, however, she had had her 


A NEW NOTE. 


158 

reward. She had won, at all events, a certain 
definite amount of recognition in her art. Perhaps 
it is given only to a few to obtain even that. 

Another artist, one among the many who knock 
daily at the gate of public opinion, had won a reward 
during these three years. But his reward, unlike 
Victoria’s, had lifted him up among the stars of 
first magnitude. 

Mr. Louis Loevio had won his reward. He, too, 
had won recognition. But as there are differences 
of reward, so, too, there are differences of recognition. 
Mr. Louis Loevio’s recognition had been of that 
unmistakable order which all desire, but few indeed 
obtain. 

The universal chorus of public opinion lifted up 
harmonious voices to tell him that he was a great 
singer, that he was a great actor, that his was the 
genius which can create a great part. 

In a word, he was Loevio. 

When the universal chorus shouts this aloud in an 
artist’s ear, it is very satisfactory for the artist, 
that’s all. It is true that the universal chorus knows 
probably very little about what it is pronouncing 
in favour of, but that is a detail, of no importance 
to any one — certainly of no importance to the object 
of its approbation. 

So the universal chorus shouted aloud the fame 
of Loevio, and they that heard the sound thereof 
believed it ; and Mr. Louis Loevio endorsed it 
cordially, in the best way possible for himself — namely 
by making them all pay for it “ through the nose,’ 
as they express it graphically, if inelegantly, on the 
other side of the Atlantic. 

Mr. Louis Loevio had his reward. 


A NEW NOTE. 


159 


His admirers likewise had their reward. 

His reward was their money, and their reward 
was his great genius. It was an admirable division, 
especially for him. 

Thus the world goes on. Here a little and there 
a little. Life and death, success and failure, up- 
rising and down-treading, jostling each other gaily 
in its living kaleidoscope. 

The season which was drawing rapidly to a close, 
as Annesley walked down Piccadilly on this July day, 
had been one of the greatest failures of past years. 

What with the influenza, and the hard times, and 
the general depression, poor old indefatigable Dame 
Fashion had found it almost impossible to get the 
requisite grist to her mill. 

Everybody said the stagnation was terrible ; every- 
body — even the drapers and milliners in Westbourne 
Grove and High Street, Kensington. So wide are 
the ripples of the circle in their circumference. 

A flutter of activity had indeed made itself 
visible towards the beginning of June. 

Society, like Mrs. Dombey, had had it brought 
home to its failing faculties that it must make an 
effort. Society, unlike the estimable but feeble 
lady just mentioned, did make an effort. It did 
more ; it made several efforts. 

The reward of the industrious is always pleasant 
to contemplate. 

The influenza betook itself to fresh fields and 
pastures new — for a time ; the daily papers began 
to write about the possibility of a good harvest, 
and the weekly papers were loud in the praises of 
those who are fond of asseverating that without 
Society, and its dinners, and its dances, and all 


A NEW NOTE. 


160 

its various pretty devices for the making away 
of its money, those inhabitants of London who 
neither dine, nor dance, would be nearer starvation 
than they are at present ; so ingenious and humorous 
is the view of life taken by the weekly papers. 

But Society, like the Christian philanthropist 
which it is, according to the weekly papers, did its 
best for the people who never dine nor dance, and 
who are nearly starving, by dining and dancing, and 
systematically overfeeding itself with something 
approaching to its usual energy. 

And the reward of the charitable is always good 
to look upon. 

New toys found their way into Society’s out- 
stretched hands. 

There are those whose lot it is in life to minister 
to the needs of Society. 

Society never needs anything but amusement 
and money. The latter is, as a rule, nowadays 
kindly furnished by America. The former has 
numerous ministrants. 

Not one of these was greater than Ford, the only 
Ford, who had never failed Society yet. 

Nor did he fail now. 

On the contrary, he invited Society to the Critic 
Theatre, to a new — a new and novel treat, which 
he, the only Ford, put forth for Society’s delight. 

Ford was a great man, and Ford knew the value 
of stimulants. 

Ford announced, in his own great magnificent 
fashion, a new opera. 

He kept on announcing it for weeks, and every 
week the announcements gained an extra touch 
or two of colouring. 


A NEW NOTE. l6l 

The final touch was to surround the new com- 
position with mystery. 

It was a new dodge, this, and it caught on, as 
Ford trusted it would. 

So Ford asked every one to come and hear the 
new and beautiful Work — with a very large W 
indeed — which he, Watkin Ford, had found, in a 
neat score, on his desk in the manager's room of 
the Critic Theatre. 

When Ford at last produced the new Work, in 
his own magnificent way, of course Society re- 
sponded to his invitation. 

Society always went to Ford : Society was under 
the impression that Ford, and all his works, lived 
only for its especial delectation. Ford cultivated 
that impression. He found, as a rule, that it paid 
— that is to say, it paid him. 

So Society went to Ford's new opera. And 
Society, reduced to a proper level of exaction by 
the all-pervading dulness which it breathed every- 
where in the air just then, went home charmed 
almost out of languor with the opera and Ford. 

Charmed — but to the charm was added curiosity. 
And curiosity, which Ford took good care should 
remain ungratified, put the piquant spice into the 
dish without which it is difficult nowadays to 
tickle the public palate. 

All this, in Society, led to a good deal outside. 

Society loving Ford and going to Ford, naturally 
the outside public, which is never to be outdone 
by Society if it can help it, loved Ford, and went 
to Ford also, as fast as it could get places. In 
short, when Society rose up delighted with Ford's 
new opera, the public rose up likewise to a man, 

II 


1 62 


A NEW NOTE. 


and to a woman — especially to a woman ; and 
when Society went so far as to be languidly curious 
about the mystery of the opera's origin, the public 
good-naturedly followed suit, and let itself be curious 
without any languor whatever. 

So far, so good, for Ford and the opera. 

Last of all came the musical world also. 

When Society leads and the public follow, the 
attitude of the musical world becomes a foregone 
conclusion. No doubt that was why Ford always 
began with Society, and continued with the public^ 
and naturally ended with the musical world, and — 
Success. With Success certainly. Watkin Ford 
always ended with Success, if that can be said to 
end which is more properly a continuous stream 
Success, however, whether begun or ended, en- 
compassed Ford and his new opera. 

At that precise moment when Annesley was 
walking down Piccadilly, London was full of the 
new opera. Literally so ; because it was to be heard 
everywhere — in Belgravian drawing-rooms, and on 
the tops of omnibuses, and, in fact, “ in all places ” 
(and they are not a few) “ where they sing ” and play. 

Unquestionably this opera, with its classic name, 
and for its libretto a classic story, was one of the 
biggest successes which even Watkin Ford had ever 
put upon the stage of the Critic Theatre. 

The name of the opera was “ Sappho." Its story, 
that of the Greek woman who, above all women, 
won imperishable fame ; only, like a woman, to 
slay herself in the end for Love's sweet sake. 

The musician who sets a tragedy of Ancient 
Greece to a round of modern harmony is one who 
daringly attempts. In this case the result, at any 


A NEW NOTE. 


163 

rate, justified the attempt. Many causes, no doubt, 
went to make the success of the attempt ; but 
principally the form of the music and of the 
dramatic arrangement, both of which were un- 
common and strikingly original. The composer 
possibly owed something to Wagner, yet not over- 
much. For instance, he followed Wagner, and 
wrote his own libretto (at least, Ford said so), and 
it was quickly apparent that, like Wagner, the 
librettist, whoever he might be, could write an 
operatic libretto which could be read aloud and 
sound like literature, even like sense. 

The opera was a one-act one — also a somewhat 
daring novelty ; but the undeniable strength of 
the music, as well as the concentration of dramatic 
force, carried it through. 

If the whole was unequal in parts, it at all events 
captured the public taste. After an almost un- 
precedented run — for the gods loved Watkin Ford — 
it was commanded to Windsor, and performed there, 
with every attribute of success, before the Queen. 

When the illustrated papers published full sheet 
pictures of the Royal performance ; when the seats 
at the Critic were booked to the date of withdrawal ; 
when “Sappho’s Song,” arranged separately in soprano 
and mezzo keys, was in two rows deep in every 
music-shop window ; when the teachers were all 
teaching it, and the pupils were all learning it and 
singing it — quite wrongly ; when judicious “ cuts ” 
got to be played by provincial organists'; and when 
the newspapers announced that during the forth- 
coming season a new and original burlesque, entitled 
“ Sappho and Phaon down too Early,” would be the 
piece at the Gaiety ; — it is to be hoped that Watkiq 


164 


A NEW NOTE 


Ford sent the author-composer that cheque which 
is alone the true reward of merit, and which was 
assuredly his due. 

It only remained for professors of the classics, and 
Greek scholars, to ridicule the libretto, which they 
were obliging enough to do in letters to the Daily 
Telegraph , and for the doyen of musical critics to 
prove to demonstration its weaknesses and to pour 
contempt upon its excellences, in sixteen pages in 
the heaviest of the Reviews — and its name was made. 

When it is added that it found itself competing 
closely in popular favour with the sweet inspiration of 
‘Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay,” the historic incident at Monte 
Carlo, and the fracas in the Old Kent Road, it 
will be seen how unlooked-for, and how extra- 
ordinary, was the measure of success accorded to 
an opera which contained real music and real art, 
and must unquestionably be the work of a real 
musician and a true artist. 

All that was now left to be done was to discover 
the latter. Apparently that fortunate person was 
one of the most modest, if not the most modest 
candidate for fame which the ranks of music, at 
all events, had ever contained. 

Who was to find the composer? That was the 
question of the day. To be sure, Ford had found 
him. But Ford had plainly taken up the attitude 
of the possessor of a Chinese puzzle — “ Ladies and 
gentlemen, the new opera ! Find the composer ! ” 

Ford’s puzzle apparently proved fascinating, for 
everybody, not to be outdone by every other body, 
set to work guessing as hard as they could, and 
with as much success as usually attends that sort 
of mental exercise. 


A NEW NOTE. 


165 

By-and-by a certain evening paper, greatly daring, 
announced with a show of authority that besides 
Ford, one other person was “ in the know.” This 
person it overtly alluded to as “ the most illustrious 
personage in Europe ” ; adding, moreover, that even 
the latter had been pledged by Ford to secrecy. 

When an evening paper in London speaks of 
the most illustrious personage in Europe, it is 
scarcely necessary to explain who it is that it means. 
But at once another evening paper (one which 
hated the first paper), still more greatly daring, 
issued a statement contradicting unequivocally the 
absurd canard given credence to by an esteemed 
contemporary, to the effect that Her Majesty the 
Queen had asked Mr. Watkin Ford the name of the 
composer of the new opera of “ Sappho,” and that, in 
point of fact, there “ was not a word of truth in 
the story.” 

This probably did nobody any harm, while it 
certainly did the opera a great deal of good. 

In a country so democratic as England, where 
a healthy hatred flourishes finely for the Lords of 
the Council and all the nobility, a better adver- 
tisement could scarcely be found than the report 
that the head of the Council and of all the nobility 
was so interested in the matter as to interrogate 
Watkin Ford about it. 

At this point the affair remained for some time. 
But Ford, calculating that even the most fascinating 
of Chinese puzzles palls after a given time, had 
of late allowed a rumour to get about to the effect 
that on some occasion before the withdrawal of 
the opera, which would take place towards the end 
of the season, the mystery would be solved. 


1 66 


A NEW NOTE. 


A supercession of the same added that, on 
the night of the final performance, Ford would 
declare the authorship, and the composer would 
show. 

The night of the final performance arrived in 

due course. 

Every seat in the Critic Theatre that night was 
filled before the curtain went up on the first scene ; 
before the last notes of the overture had died into 
silence. The audience was a thoroughly repre- 
sentative one — pressmen and peers, professors 
and politicians, “ first-nighters/’ and many who 
seldom enter a theatre on any night — “ Literature 
and the Drama,” Society and the Public, were all 
there. Even Royalty sent a representative or two. 

Annesley, looking round him from his seat in 
the stalls, thought he had never seen a more brilliant 
house. 

Possibly Watkin Ford thought so too, as he 
scanned it critically from behind a corner of the 
drop-scene. 

The probability of anything special to be heard 
or seen had much less to do with Annesley’s 
presence there, than, in all likelihood, with that of 
any other person in the big crowd which filled 
every inch of room from floor to ceiling. Annesley 
was no musician or artist, but he liked this new 
opera. Some chord in it touched him. He settled 
himself down contentedly to give it his undivided 
attention, and the house and its brilliant audience 
were very soon forgotten. He listened placidly to 
the luscious notes of Mr. Louis Loevio, the great 
tenor, without whose superb voice and impassioned 


A NEW NOTE. 167 

acting — so said the universal chorus — no piece 
would be complete. 

Annesley gave the splendid Loevio the meed of 
attention, but his delight was in the last and greatest 
song, the tour-de-force indeed of the whole opera, 
musically, scenically, dramatically — the song of 
Sappho, in which, standing forth on the Leucadian 
rock, she pours out all the passion and all the 
despair of her unrequited love, ere she casts herself 
into the arms of Death. 

The curtain fell. 

Annesley’s attention, enraptured as it was by the 
beauty of the song and its passionate melody, failed 
for a moment to come back to the prosaic reality 
of actual life. But before it had returned to its 
accustomed grooves, he became conscious of a 
sudden and inexplicable stir around him. The 
peculiar sense of apprehensiveness which so easily 
takes hold of a large assemblage had already 
fastened on the audience. Like an electric cur- 
rent the vibration of it swept over Annesley, 
awaking him forthwith from his faint, absorbing 
reverie. 

He started, and glanced up with a smile — a smile 
begotten of slightly excited amusement. 

The smile died at its birth. 

A sound, which had begun in a curious cry of 
astonishment, had ended in a roar of applause, that 
shook the rafters to their topmost bar, as it rang and 
reverberated again and yet again through the theatre. 

A cold white mist swept across Annesley’s face, 
coming like a dash of raw mountain air through 
the arid artificial atmosphere. 


iC8 


A NEW NOTE. 


Shining almost level with his eyes was the rippling 
glare of the foot-lights. It seemed to Annesley as 
if the whole rippling row of fiery lights leaped up 
and struck his eyeballs — struck them full, while nearly 
blinding him. He put his hand to his eyes in- 
voluntarily, instinctively, for as he looked, there, 
behind those foot-lights, stood — good God ! — the 
girl who had walked with him under the old beech 
trees at Eastaston. She stood there before him, 
self-confessed, the composer of the most notable 
work of the day, and bowing, somewhat coldly, her 
acknowledgments to a house whose excitement 
had probably never been surpassed in the history 
of the English stage. 

The theatre, the audience, the one small prominent 
figure on the stage, rocked and swayed before 
Annesley’s sight. 

He saw her face, white as death from emotion ; 
he saw her eyes, dark as night ; he saw the poise 
of her shapely head ; he saw the curve of her lips — 
the lips he had wanted to kiss ; he saw Ford standing 
near her, but farther back, towards the wings — Watkin 
Ford, one big, brilliant, triumphant smile from head to 
foot — delight, prosperity, popularity personified. . . . 

FitzGerald Annesley stood up, and left the Critic 
Theatre. 

The ruddy colour turned pallid in his cheeks. 
He walked stupidly, like one who was drunk, or 
dreaming. He saw nothing clearly. 

He was a slow man, and he felt stunned. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


On the other side of the stage it looked as if 
Miss Victoria Leathley was in a fair way of having 
her head completely turned. 

Behind the scenes the astonishment and excite- 
ment were quite as great as they had been in front 

The secret had indeed been admirably kept, up to 
the very last moment. Even the singers and actors 
had not known, unless one exception be made with 
regard to Loevio, who, if he had not known, had 
suspected more than once ; although even he had 
told himself that his suspicions were but a figment 
of his brain. 

It may be imagined, therefore, that the newly- 
declared composer, after every one had offered his 
or her felicitations, received altogether a considerable 
amount of flattery. 

She took it very quietly. 

Only when Loevio approached her did her com- 
posure fail, just for a second. But the failure was 
so slight and so quickly-passing, that it would have 
needed a very keen observer to have noticed it. 
If Loevio observed it, his manner gave no hint of 
having done so. 

Loevio was changed in the past years. Success 
had brought him certain social advantages, and these 
had done much for him. He was too good an actor 
not to possess largely the power of adaptability ; 

169 


A NEW NOTE. 


I70 

and it had been little troublesome or difficult to him 
to suit the habits of his life to his altered circum- 
stances. As to these, he was now at the apex 
of his career. He had now his beautiful rooms con- 
veniently near Piccadilly ; he had his brougham 
and his man — or his two men ; he was a member 
of the Garrick Club, and many others ; in a word, he 
was one of the most successful artistes of the day. 

The one demon which he had to dread in the 
future was the increasing weight, not of years, but 
of flesh. But so far, even in this, he was still on 
the right side of the balance. The worst that could 
be said of him in this respect might be that which 
was said of one of the greatest of English actors — 
namely, that he was “ corpulently graceful.” 

In manner, speech, and dress, he had undergone 
the serviceable process which is called toning down. 
His magnificent hair was still as bizarre in its 
arrangement as heretofore, but in no other respect 
did his toilet differ from the most approved con- 
ventionality. 

Turning to the new composer, he bowed low 
to her, as perhaps only an actor can bow. Yet 
there was in it a faint return of the old florid 
tendencies, which the training of his present life 
had almost obliterated. It was strange that when 
he was in Victoria's society the old tendencies 
showed an inclination to reappear. 

Withal, he was very graceful, as he, too, in his 
turn spoke a word of felicitation. 

“ It is incomparable — superb ! No woman has 

ever done anything to equal it in music!” 

He murmured the words softly, and his great 
blue eyes looked full into hers. 


A NEW NOTE. 171 

Her eyes as they met his were cold, but her 
face grew warm. 

“You are much too kind.” She spoke very 
quickly, even for her. “ I have to thank you most 
warmly for your share in the work, and its success. 
My opera has been very fortunate indeed in having 
secured such artistes for its interpretation.” 

But though she thanked him warmly, there 
was no warmth in her voice. It was clear and 
cold, even hard. It did not tell Loevio that her 
heart was beating wildly. 

When she at last got home once more to her 
father’s house in Rutland Gardens ; when she had 
heard the last words, and the last congratulations ; 
when she had locked her sister-in-law out of her 
room, and could sit down alone, and think of it 
all, her heart beat wildly again. 

She threw herself into a big, soft chair, and for 
some time she sat very still, her head resting on 
her hand. She thought of it all as she sat there. 
So she had won — won all along the line. Everything 
was hers, everything that she had hoped for, or 
dreamed of. More, far more, than her best hopes. 
No one knew better than herself the fulness of the 
measure of her success. Yet, the faint smile that 
hovered about her lips, as she sat there, had nothing 
of triumph in it. There was no sparkle of brilliant 
achievement in her eyes. There was no flush of 
pleasure in her cheeks. She looked spent, and 
worn, and agitated. 

Some wave of memory recalled a forgotten scene. 
Words forgotten also recurred to her. 

“ He said I would harp on that string some day. 
How strange that it should come now ! How strange 


172 


A NEW NOTE. 


everything is ! And I might have been so happy but 
for this. Bah ! What a fool I am ! As if it won’t 
all pass away as if it had never been. If — if I was 
only sure of him ! If I only could trust him ! But 
I can’t. Besides, a man like that, who is he ? I 
don’t know. And his pa$t must be pretty sketchy , I 
should say. Good gracious ! how absurd I am ! and 
how I should loathe myself and him in six months ! 
The capacity for love of this sort is inexplicable. 
It never lasts very long ; but, while it does, it is 
irresistible — no, reasonless. The idea of rational 
beings allowing themselves to be at its mercy ! ” 

Her face hardened. Then she flushed vividly, and 
the next moment turned pale again. 

She stood up impulsively, and took a photograph 
off the mantelpiece. It was a large, unjramed portrait 
of Loevio, dressed for his part in her opera. 

Her eyes scrutinised it intently. Holding it at 
arms’ length from her with both hands, she still gazed 
steadily at it. 

“ Oh, great heavens, what a fool I am ! I could 
do anything for him — sometimes — now. Jerry was 
right — yes, I think, I do think Jerry was right. I 
should have been safe with him — safe. How nice ! ” 

She looked up as she reached this point, and a 
little, chill sneer twisted her face. 

Her eyes fell once more on the photograph in 
her hands. She raised it suddenly and pressed it 
tightly to her breast. Loevio’s face rested against 
the warm white flesh. 

A moment later, with a gesture of unspeakable 
disgust, she tore the picture across and across and 
across, and flung the fragments into the grate. 

She bit her lip, and smiled contemptuously. 


A NEW NOTE. 


173 


" It is inevitable, I suppose, for an artist to be 
emotional. I am emotional, but not altogether. It 
will be amusing to watch how long it will take to 
get this out of me.” 

Nevertheless, Victoria scarcely found it amusing. 

She grew weary and restive. 

The sight of Loevio made her either wild with 
agitation, or furious with self-contempt. 

She hated her love for this man, hated it, even 
while her heart beat to suffocation at the mere 
possibility of seeing him, or of hearing the sound 
of his voice. Often, alone in her room and in her 
bed at night, the hot tears forced themselves from 
under her eyelids, tears of burning contempt for 
her own weakness. 

The strongest chain is no stronger than its weakest 
link. The words are a truism ; but truisms lived 
out in human experience are often as novel as whole 
volumes of new philosophies. 

Victoria Leathley was living out now some world- 
old truisms in her human experience. That they 
were truisms, and that they were as old as mankind, 
detracted nothing whatever from the pain their 
existence cost her. 

A touch of genius, too, is apt to complicate 
matters terribly, especially when genius has been 
put to school by civilisation. 

Victoria Leathley, a great artist, possessed emo- 
tional instincts of the strength of which she was 
not herself as yet aware. Victoria Leathley, a woman 
of the world, the result as well as the creature of 
civilisation, possessed instincts of self-preservation in 
a degree so strong as to interfere considerably with 
the promptings of those other and primary instincts 


174 


A NEW NOTE. 


which no order of things has as yet eliminated from 
human nature. 

The contest was not an equal one ; but then, is it 
ever so ? 

Victoria went through the ordeal of public incense 
that followed the declaration at the Critic Theatre with 
a composure which nine people out of ten calledconceit. 

She bore the constant presentation of flattery 
and congratulations, the inevitable whirl of publicity, 
the blaze of notoriety, with a languid imperturbability, 
which was not natural to her, because she was not 
indifferent to her own fame ; she was not indifferent 
to the verdict of the world upon the work of her 
brain ; she was far from careless as to the place 
which was to be hers in the world of music. 

But the reaction of the strain of past years, 
combined as it was now with the strain going on 
in her life, produced a certain apathy for the moment 
which looked like indifference in some ways, and 
perhaps a’ touch of intellectual vanity in others. 
Nevertheless, when people said, as they did say 
just now, that Victoria posed, as the temptation to 
a great artist in her circumstances is to pose, they 
were wrong. She was not in the least inclined to 
pose, nothing was farther from her thoughts ; but they 
were ignorant of the cause, and they mistook the effect. 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley believed Victoria was spoilt. 

She was confirmed in this by Victoria’s apparent 
unreasonableness in the matter of their future plans. 

Victoria would make no plans. 

Now Mrs. Edmund Leathley lived on plans — 
lived, moved, and had her being upon plans of 
all sorts. She made plans for everything. 

Conway Keppel always said that when Gertrude 


A NEW NOTE. 


175 


Leathley, in the nature of things, found herself 
removed from this world and placed in the other, 
she would have perfectly formed plans, already cut 
and dried, for her method of procedure in her new 
existence. 

At present Mrs. Edmund Leathley was ready 
with her plan. Her plan consisted in going to 
Scotland for the twelfth. She meant, however, to 
go long before the twelfth, partly because she had 
certain fixed theories as to the desirability of 
breathing a certain quantity of a certain sort of 
atmosphere each year, and partly because Mr. 
Leathley’s little shooting-box was so small, and in 
such an out-of-the-way corner of Scotland, that it 
was impossible to have visitors there on any ex- 
tended scale, and perfectly futile to indulge in new 
dresses. 

In a word, she believed Craigvar to be healthful 
and economical. It would be difficult to determine 
which attribute pleased her best. 

But Victoria wouldn’t go to Craigvar. Victoria 
would neither go now, nor say that she would go 
later on. 

“ It would do you so much good, Victoria — ever 
so much good. You have been living a life of 
unnatural excitement, and the calm, bracing air of 
the Highlands ” 

“ My dear Gertrude, I am perfectly well.” 

Victoria interposed with this, not for the first time. 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley had made the same 
remark on an average of about ten times a day 
for a week. But she repeated it now once more, 
no doubt on the principle that you cannot have 
too much of a good thing. It was the day before 


176 


A NEW NOTE. 


her departure for the calm, bracing air, so that 
many opportunities were not left to her of re- 
petition. She sipped her coffee, and began again. 
The two ladies were lingering over their breakfast. 
Mrs. Edmund Leathley set down her coffee cup. 

“You’re looking utterly worn out, Victoria. I 
was saying so — Edmund and I were saying so 
only last night. My dear child, what do you 
mean to do? Have you no plans?” 

“ None,” said Victoria promptly ; “ none whatever. 
Oh, Gertrude, can I have the victoria this afternoon, 
or the brougham? Yes? Thanks.” 

“ But your father, Victoria — your father depends 
on you. Have you no plan for him ? ” 

Victoria sighed, and prepared for flight. 

“ I depend on him, Gertrude. We shall go some- 
where — he and I together.” 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley snapped her lips together. 
“Edmund and I were saying last night ” 

She began it again with unimpaired vigour. 

She found herself in a minute talking to the 
empty air. Victoria, like the man in the Scriptures, 
had opened the door and fled. 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley went away the next 
day in a little huff, and Victoria was left alone 
with her father in Rutland Gardens. 

“ It strikes me that it’s about time you and I 
went somewhere, or did something,” was her father’s 
remark at their tete-a-tete dinner that evening. 

“ I will do anything you like,” was the response. 

“ Oh, I’m ripe for any mischief,” he said 
smilingly. 

Victoria seemed unwilling to suggest even 
mischief. 


A NEW NOTE. 


177 


Mr. Leathley said no more just then. 

Two days later he marched into the drawing- 
room, between five and seven, looking very contented. 

“ Well, little woman, they told me you were alone, 
so I came up. Anybody here to-day ? ” 

“Only Ada Keppel. Everybody is packing their 
boxes, thank goodness ! ” Victoria replied. 

“ Well, you may pack yours ” — he took up his 
stand, with his back to the fireless grate, and 

hummed a tune complacently as he said it — “ for 

God bless my soul, what am I doing ? ” He had got 
his foot in a flower-pot, and there was a small crash. 

“ Oh ! ” ejaculated Victoria. “ Poor Shepherd ! 
She is so proud of her floral arrangement in that 
grate. Never mind. Gertrude isn’t here.” 

Mr. Leathley’s eyes twinkled. 

“ Well ” — he turned and surveyed his disturbance 
of Shepherd’s really pretty devices with ferns and 
palms for filling up the empty fireplace — “ I am 
extremely sorry, even though Gertrude is not here. 
Who does it, did you say ? ” 

“Shepherd,” said Victoria. 

“Hum, ha! Shepherd?” 

“The upper housemaid,” explained Victoria. 

“ Oh, the big woman with the red hair.” He 
stooped down and endeavoured to right the flower- 
pot. “There, that’s better. Well, I’ve paired with 
Maitland, so we may be off. Have you anything 
to suggest ? ” 

Victoria apparently had very little to suggest. 
She stood up, and the lines of her small fragile 
figure expressed weariness and languor unusual to 
her. Mr. Leathley caught her hand, and drew her 
to him. 


12 


178 


A NEW NOTE. 


“ I saw another new sketch of you to-day, my 
famous composer. That makes the sixth. I have it 
below. Hey ! you don’t want to see it ? Don’t care 
a hang about it, hey ? Blase child ! ” 

He put his arm round her waist and held her so 
that she could not escape his scrutiny — had she 
desired to escape it. But, on the contrary, he 
noticed that she leaned against him as she used to 
do when she was a little child. 

“ In the meantime, who’s going to take me out of 
town? I’m waiting to go where I’m told.” The 
pressure of his arm encircled her caressingly, and 
he stroked her cheek softly with the back of his 
right hand as he spoke. “ Town’s not exactly 
pleasant now, is it, eh ? By the way, I came on 
old Jerry to-day wandering about the Haymarket, 
of all places on earth. I told him if he thought 
it worth his while to come round here at half-past 
eight you’d give him a bit of dinner. He said 
he’d turn up.” 

He watched her, as he went on talking and smiling 
carelessly. 

“ Jerry’s looking a bit seedy,” he continued ; and 
he thought, as he said it, that somebody else was 
looking “ a bit seedy,” too. “ Says himself he wants 
fresh air. I told him he ought to take a turn on 
his native heath. Gad ! you young people are not 
our betters in health and strength in these 
days. Hugh told me this morning, with a face 
as white as paper, that he didn’t think, after four 
months’ grind at Aldershot, he would be able even 
to convey his mortal remains to Eastaston in 
November, You’re a poor lot, compared with your 
father,” 


A NEW NOTE. 179 

Victoria laid her head for a minute against his 
shoulder. 

“ I wish she said suddenly. Then she stopped. 

“So Jerry is coming to dinner?” She looked up 
at her father, and smiled as she met his eyes. 

“ Do you know ” She tried to push his arm 

away from her waist, and get free ; but he took no 
notice apparently of her intention. She lifted her 
head and kissed him. 

“ I want to see the sketch,” she said sweetly. 

But she didn’t want to see the sketch one bit ; she 
wanted to escape. A moment later she did escape. No 
doubt she was satisfied that she had deceived her father. 

At half-past eight, when Annesley was shown into 
the drawing-room, he found her seated there, with 
William the Conqueror in her lap. If Mrs. Edmund 
Leathley had been there too, she would have been 
properly horrified at the idea of any one allowing 
a large black cat to sit on a dress which was made 
of bengaline of a delicate shade of colour. Never- 
theless, thereupon was William the Conqueror, re- 
posing in dignity and effectiveness, purring all the 
time with a sound like a boiling kettle. 

A break occurred in the sound as Victoria stood 
up to greet Annesley. William the Conqueror, 
unceremoniously treated, retired a few paces to an 
adjacent rug, where he seated himself with his back 
to the company. 

Victoria held out her hand to Annesley. 

“Well, Jerry, it’s a perfect age since one has 
seen you. Where have you been hiding yourself? 
Edmund said something the other day about writing 
to ask you if you were dead and buried. Rather 
an Irish way of putting it, isn’t it ? ” 


i8o 


A NEW NOTE. 


He laughed as he made some light response. 
He could not take his eyes off her face ; he kept 
wondering all the time why it looked so pale and wan. 

Victoria became aware of his scrutiny at once, and 
set it down to her careful toilette. The latter was 
several degrees smarter than was at all necessary for 
dining at home with her father and Jerry Annesley. 

When Victoria told her maid that she would 
wear the vieux-rose dress, with the point-de-Venise 
lace on the bodice, tnat evening, her maid might 
well have stared — that is, if she had not been far 
too well trained to so far forget herself — because the 
dress in question was so much out of proportion 
to the occasion. Nevertheless, Victoria did wear 
it, and in consquence experienced distinct pleasure 
in Annesley’s scrutiny. And this, too, when all the 
time she was feeling tired, bored, and unhappy. 

The woman who is young and fairly good-looking 
must be very miserable indeed when the conscious- 
ness that her appearance is pleasing and her toilette 
perfect, fails to give her any gratification. 

That bengaline frock, with its becoming shade 
of vieux-rose , to hide the pallor of her face, with 
its superlatively good cut, and superlatively good 
fit, with all its cunning arts and graces whereby 
the slimness of her waist and the outline of her 
bust were accentuated, was a complete gratification 
to her now. Happily she did not know that not 
all the arts of the modiste, nor the aid of the vieux- 
rose colouring, could disguise the pallor and drawn 
weariness of her face. 

Annesley was still studying it furtively when Mr. 
Leathley came in. 

“ Hullo, Jerry, my boy, there you are ! Hope 


A NEW NOTE. 


181 


you’ll get something decent to eat. Gertrude took 
the cook to Craigvar, and Victoria and I are living 
on the kitchen-maid — who is an understudy — and 
the fat of the land, especially the fat. Cook’s 
understudy is very fond of fat. She also seems 
convinced of the truth of the good old proverb 
‘ There’s nothing like leather.’ This young woman,” 
nodding in Victoria’s direction, “ happens to be off 
her feed just at present, so she don’t care. . . . 
Jerry, my boy, never live with a ‘celebrity at 
home,’ if you can help it.” 

“ I think,” said Annesley, “ that it ought to be 
a celebrity abroad as soon as possible. I can’t 
say, Victoria, that you look up to much in the 
way of strength.” 

He looked at her with a kind smile as he said 
it. Victoria flushed and turned pale. Her colour 
was very fluctuating just then. 

“ Oh, my looks ! All my friends have apparently 
got my looks on the brain. I must say I am 
slightly tired of comments on my personal ap- 
pearance.” 

This was said pettishly ; indeed, more than 
pettishly ; downright crossly. 

Mr. Leathley just saved himself from chuckling, 
He always said that Victoria, cross, amused him 
beyond measure. He had an old and feeble pun 
about his Victoria cross. He used to air this feeble 
pun in the days when the authorities in the nursery 
found the pun and its cause anything but amusing. 

Annesley made no remark. Probably he did not 
consider any remark necessary. Victoria, with the 
red colour still coming and going in her white 
cheeks, caught up her beloved cat and buried her 


A NEW NOTE. 


182 

face in his fur. It was perhaps as well that dinner 
was announced at that minute. 

During dinner the two men had the conversation 
pretty much to themselves. Victoria apparently was 
devoting herself to her dinner so assiduously as to 
leave her unable to sustain any great share in aught 
else. Her father was unquestionably the most 
talkative and most cheerful of the trio. 

“ I suppose/’ said Annesley, “ you go to Craigvar 
for the twelfth ? ” 

Mr. Leathley shook his head. 

“The powers that be,” looking down the table 
as he spoke at Victoria, “ won’t go to Craigvar this 
year. The powers that be are going to take me to 
Cornwall ; at least, so I am given to understand.” 

“To Cornwall?” ejaculated Jerry. 

“Yes, my boy. Hum, it’s a very fine thing to 
be father-in-law to a very magnificent three-tailed 
bashaw. Jerry, old chap, take a word in season. . . . 
Oh confound it ! that woman will poison me with 
pepper. She’s emptied every grain of pepper in 
the place into this thing ! But — about my word in 
season. (My seasoning’s better than the under- 
study’s, not so pungent ; pungency’s the fault of 
youth ; at least, the pungency which is crude.) At 
all events, Jerry, avoid, as far as possible, being the 
father of a famous composer. Famous composers 
are all very well — at a distance. Distance, you 
know, lends, etc., etc.” 

“ But what,” said Annesley solidly, “ are you going 
to do in Cornwall ? ” 

“ How can I tell you ? I fancy we shall go out 
in a boat a good deal, and compose new operas, 
you know.” 


A NEW NOTE. 


183 


“How long shall you be there?” 

“Sealed orders,” replied his host solemnly. 

Annesley was puzzled. 

He glanced at Victoria again. She was cutting 
her meat into small squares, and distributing it 
round her plate. This operation kept her suitably 
employed, while it obviated the necessity of eating. 

By some impulse suddenly prompted, Annesley 
said to her, — 

“ So you never came to Castle Connaught, Victoria, 
after all?” 

She looked up and met his eyes. 

“Ask us now, Jerry — at least, in September — and 
we will go.” 

Annesley could hardly believe his ears. 

“ Can’t we, father dear ? ” she continued, addressing 
the latter, who perhaps was little less surprised than 
Annesley. 

Mr. Leathley assented readily, and the three set 
to work to arrange it. To Victoria it was a matter 
only of indifference. She had been prompted to it 
more by a desire to atone to Annesley for the 
abominably cross speech which she had allowed 
herself to make to him before dinner than by any 
real preference for Castle Connaught. 

But to Annesley everything else was blotted out 
by the one fact that he would have her at Castle 
Connaught in a few weeks. And yet there was 
no possibility of any ulterior good to hope for 
for him from this visit. Nevertheless, an extra- 
ordinary feeling of delight lay in the prospect of 
it. He could not have explained to himself, or to 
any one else, why this was so, or why it should 
be so — only it was so. It is fortunately not 


184 


A NEW NOTE. 


necessary to explain the causation of happiness in 
order to enjoy the happiness itself. Annesley, 
without any explanations or analysis, was able to 
be happy now. Unreasoningly happy it might be, 
but none the less really so, on that account. 

“ Good-bye,” he said to Victoria, smiling into her 
eyes, as he stood up to go away ; “ at least — not 
good-bye, but au revoir, till we meet in Ireland.” 

She smiled, too, at the unconcealed pleasure in 
his accents. 

“ Till we meet in Ireland,” she repeated. “ How 
funny it sounds ! ” 

But all the same, she, too, if not actually delighted, 
was at least contented with the prospect. 

To go to Ireland would be a novelty. It would 
be something to do , something of a welcome dis- 
traction. Anything that could have helped her to 
get away from herself would have been grateful 
to her at that moment. 

Besides, Loevio would not be in Ireland. Loevio, 
she knew, had refused an autumn tour in the pro- 
vinces and Ireland. He had said he wanted rest. 
Ireland, therefore, would be safe so far as Loevio 
was concerned. 

Victoria, as she thought of this, assured herself 
with insistent iteration that she was glad that this 
was so — very, very glad. 

All the same, the tears filled her eyes. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


WHEN Victoria took her place with her father some 
weeks later in the Irish mail train at Euston, she 
looked the better of her sojourn in the little Cornish 
seaside village where Mr. Leathley had good-naturedly 
remained during the days when he possibly would 
have preferred to have helped his son to shoot the 
grouse which, whether he had any sport or not, he 
was paying for at Craigvar. 

But Mr. Leathley and his daughter had very much 
enjoyed each other's society. They were always 
good companions to each other, and of late it had 
not been easy for them to be much together for 
any length of time. 

As the train moved slowly out of the station, 
Victoria experienced a sensation of amused ex- 
pectancy. It was something novel to find herself 
starting for Ireland to stay with Jerry Annesley 
at Castle Connaught. She settled herself down 
comfortably after a while, and long before the train 
reached Crewe she was actually sound asleep. 

Even at Chester she only opened her eyes dreamily 
for a minute, not realising in the least where she 
was, or what all the shouting, and banging of doors, 
could mean. 

But when Holyhead was reached she was roused 
very effectually as the train shot down to the jetty. 
There the flaring lamplight showed her dazzled 


A NEW NOTE. 


1 86 

eyes a gleaming glimpse of water, and, close up 
beside the train, a long, dark object, relieved with 
what looked like great patches of white here and 
there upon the dark surface. 

Victoria sat up, rubbed her eyes, pulled herselt 
together, straightened her hair (or thought she did), 
and stared with all her might and main out into 
the lamplit darkness, to discover that the long, 
looming black object was a big steamer, — one of 
the big steamers, indeed, which carry Her Majesty's 
mails and Her Majesty's subjects swiftly and safely 
across the streak of sea which divides Great Britain 
from Ireland. 

“ We’ve got the Ireland to-night," she heard 
a gentleman say to his wife ; and she discovered 
that “the Ireland" was the name of the steamer, 
whose gangways were already crowded with 
passengers and porters, wending their way in a long 
file under the lamplight. The stillness of the night 
was broken by the echoes of the different voices, 
and the bustle of getting the “ mails " on board as 
the stream of porters, each with a heavily laden 
linen bag across his shoulder, ran to and fro between 
the steamer and the train. 

Mr. Leathley, who knew the place and its order 
of proceedings pretty well, was amused at the face 
of Parker, Victoria's maid. 

Parker was a person of experience. Parker knew 
the ways of travelling — of polite travelling. Parker 
had, as old-fashioned biographies express it, made the 
grand tour. But neither the grand tour, nor polite 
travelling (in Parker's estimation), included Ireland— 
Hi reland, Parker was pleased to call it. 

“ Hireland ! " said Parker to herself, as she clutched 


A NEW NOTE. 


I8; 


Victoria’s bag and found herself jostled along the 
gangway. “ The hidear of H Ireland ! Well, I never 
did in all my life ! ” 

“ Here ye are, miss ; moin’ wheer ye’re goin’. Kape 
ta the roight ! ” cried a friendly blue-coated official 
with a rich, resounding brogue, grabbing Parker by 
the arm as he spoke from his place at the foot of 
the gangway. 

“ Fine passage to-night, hey, my man?” observed 
Mr. Leathley, with a twinkle in his eye, addressing 
the blue-coated one for Victoria’s benefit. 

“ Foine passage ! Begorra, ye’re honour ’ll get 
to King stozvn ta-night same as if ye wor in ye’re 
own arrum-chair. Ladies’ cab’n, sir ? All roight, 
sir. Young lady got a bert’, sir? Stewardess, me 
lady?” — he touched his cap to Victoria. u Aw, yis, 
me lady, below in tha ladies’ cab’n, me lady.” 

He lowered his voice quite half a tone in 
addressing Victoria. 

“ Now, then ! ” — waving his arm, and raising his 
voice once more to its accustomed pitch. “ Come on 
ow a that with them baags. What tha blazes are 
ye waitin’ for over there ? ” 

Victoria heard the echoes of the big, rough brogue 
in her cabin, roaring out a dozen commands, exe- 
crations, and admonitions, to a dozen different people, 
in one breath. 

Nevertheless, the owner of the brogue had spoken 
truly. They had a beautifully smooth passage, and 
Victoria, who was no better a sailor than the 
majority of her countrymen and women, lay in her 
berth, quite undisturbed by even a hint of sea- 
sickness. She even slept, though not so well as 
in the train. But this was owing to Parker. Parker, 


A NEW NOTE. 


1 88 

who believed herself to be undergoing martyrdom, 
thought it incumbent on her, and suitable to the 
exigencies of her condition, to indulge in the 
gratifying relief of groaning — respectfully, indeed, as 
became a lady’s maid who had lived with the best 
families ; but still audibly and at recurrent intervals. 
She was not in the least ill. Probably, if the truth 
were known, she had never felt better in her life ; 
but during the delights of martyrdom, particularly 
martyrdom on the sea, the resigned nobility of the 
martyr is permitted to consume his soul in groans. 
At least, * Parker had always understood so. Like 
a woman and a Briton Parker claimed her privileges. 

Victoria got very little sleep. 

A recurrent groan, which keeps you looking out 
for it about every ten minutes or so, cannot, on the 
whole, be taken as a soothing sedative. Parker did 
not sleep. Martyrdom and sleep are not compatible. 
During the three hours and a half, or so, that the 
mail steamer spent in crossing the Channel, Parker, 
wide awake, enjoyed the groaning of the justly 
injured to her heart’s content. 

Altogether, Victoria was not sorry when, in the 
early morning, a tap sounded on the door of her 
cabin, and her father’s voice exclaimed, — 

“ How are you, young woman ? All right ? Do 
you think you feel able to come up on deck and look 
at the view, hey? Say yes, and I’ll wait for you.” 

Victoria said yes very readily, and in an incredibly 
short space of time she opened the cabin door and 
joined her father. 

“ Good child ! ” said the latter approvingly. “ Now, 
come along, and I’ll show you something worth 
looking at” 



They walked together as the steamer swept smoothly along. 
— Page 189 









A NEW NOTE. 


189 


Something worth looking at, indeed ! Victoria 
uttered a little cry of surprise at the scene which 
spread itself before her when they reached the centre 
of the deck. The Ireland was now in the Bay of 
Dublin, about three-quarters of a mile outside Kings- 
town Harbour. 

Before them, and behind them, and around them* 
lay a sapphire sea. Along the coastline ran the 
sweep of the bay, edging a valley enclosed in an 
almost perfect amphitheatre of hills. The shapely 
outlines of the hills rose fair and clear against the 
blue horizon. Over sea and land the newly-risen 
sun was shedding a glory of golden light. Rain had 
fallen in the night, and the peculiar softness and 
richness of the verdure of the country was apparent, 
even in the distance. A fairy-like radiance and 
freshness lay over the approaching landscape ; 
and the lambent atmosphere spread, as it were, a 
smile of beauty on the face of earth and sky. 

Victoria, looking round her, drew a long breath, 
and exclaimed, — 

“ How beautiful ! Why did nobody ever tell me 
Ireland was so beautiful?” 

They stood and walked together, she and her 
father, as the steamer swept smoothly along ; the 
coastline drew nearer, and the white houses, dotted 
here and there singly, and in clusters, and in 
rows, became more and more clear, until Kingstown 
Harbour itself was reached, and the big vessel turned 
in at the harbour’s mouth neatly. Two minutes 
later they were alongside the pier ; the gangways 
were thrown down, Victoria crossed them with her 
father, and the latter said to her, — 

“ Now you’re in Ireland.” 


190 


A NEW NOTE. 


The train, which was drawn up on the pier, carried 
them quickly up to Dublin. 

Victoria seemed in the mood to enjoy everything. 

“ Look ! ” she said, as the train steamed into 
Westland Row station. “ Aren’t those Irish jaunting- 
cars ? Oh, do let’s have one to the hotel.” 

Her father laughed. 

“Very well,” he said good-humouredly, “if you 
think you’d really like it ; but remember, they’re 
odd conveyances for unaccustomed people.” 

But she was not to be daunted. An “ outside car ” 
she would have. 

Mr. Leathley ran his eye rapidly over the long 
line of cabs and cars. 

“ Here,” he said ; “ here’s a humorous-looking 

‘jarvey’; we’ll try this fellow and his car.” 

“ Car, sir ? ” cried the man in question, catching 
Mr. Leathley’s eye fixed on him. “ Here ye are, 
sir ! ” He stood up as he spoke, on one side of his 
car, and waved his whip excitedly. “ Here ye are, 
sir ! Yis, sir, Will the young la-ady sit beside 
ye, sir ? ” 

Mr. Leathley nodded. 

“ Certainly, my man,” he said. “ Now, my child,” 
he added, to Victoria. 

He helped her up, putting her at the lower end 
of the car, while he himself took the top seat beside 
her, next the horse. 

“ Properly speaking, we should sit one on either 
side of the car, and the driver on the little front seat 
of the well, but I’ll keep beside you till you get 
used to this sort of conveyance. Now, are you all 
right ? Look at Parker’s face, with that gesticulating 
railway porter. Hold on tight, especially going 


A NEW NOTE. 


191 

round the corners ; they turn very sharp, these chaps. 
Shelbourne Hotel, my man, and go by Merrion 
Square.” 

“ Aw, yis, yer honour, be the Juke’s lawn, yer 
honour.” 

Victoria found it a matter of some difficulty to 
hear what was passing between her father and their 
comical-looking Jehu — who wore an exceedingly 
battered grey felt hat, of a nondescript shape — owing 
to the rattle of the car and the rapid, resounding 
clatter of the horse’s hoofs on the stone pavement ; 
but she just caught the words, “ Duke’s Lawn.” 

“What is that?” she said to her father. 

“ Linsther Lawn, me lady,” said the carman, 
replying to her question. “ There it is, miss,” 
pointing with his whip, as he spoke, to a small 
public garden. “An’ that’s tha Queen’s husband in 
the middle, that statute , and that’s ould Linsther 
House. Aw, yis, yer honour, sure ’twas tha Juke o’ 
Linsther’s own town house wanst on a toime ; an’ 
a great, gran’ juke he is ; aw yis, an’ a gran’ fam’ly 
are tha Geraldines — tha fightin’ FitzGeralds they’re 
well named. Aw, thin, yis, that’s the house, an’ 
poor Lard Edward himself escaped out of it. He 
did so. An’ he’d ’a’ got off entirely, on’y for his wife, 
God help her ! Sure, she couldn’t lave him alone, 
but screeching and goin’ for ta see him here, there, 
an’ everywhere, an’ so didn’t the blagguard roofins 
folly her an’ nab him in tha ind, an’ didn’t they 
shtarve him to death in tha prison, bad luck to thim 
for it ! Aw, they did that same, sorra a word o’ lie.” 

This ingenious blending of fact and fiction con- 
siderably amused Mr. Leathley, who had some 
acquaintance with the facts of Irish history. 


192 


A NEW NOTE. 


“Who was Lord Edward?” inquired Victoria. 

“Oh,” replied her father, “he was a son of one 
of the Dukes of Leinster, and took a part in the 
Irish Rebellion of 1798. That’s a smart little mare 
you’ve got,” he added, to the carman; “you want 
a good goer in these streets, hey?” 

“ Aw, yis, yer honour, and now, wid tha mili tairy 
gents that most hires us, it’s drive be this an’ be 
that wid ’em” 

“ I suppose so ; but they’re very good pay ? ” 

“ Aw, well, yis, sir, tha most o’ thim is, I’ll not 
deny it, very free-handed, and off-handed ; but 
sometimes, bedad, they’re mane enuff. Now there 
was a fella, a great mil itairy gent, an’ wan evenin’ 
last winter he called me beyant there at tha other 
side o’ the square ; an’ sez he ta me, sez he, ‘ I’m 
goin’ to tha Castle,’ sez he, ‘for ta dine wid tha 
Lard-Lift-nant,’ sez he, as grand as ye plaze ; an’ 
up he jumps. An’ indade, ‘ be tha same token,’ sez 
I ta mesilf, sez I, ‘ an’ I’m thinkin’ ye’re not much , 
an’ it’s not dine wid Quality ye do often, or ye 
wouldn’t be so burstin’ out o’ yersilf wid tha pride 
o’ ye.’ But at all events, ‘ Drive like tha divil ! ’ sez 
he to me; 1 it’s thinkin it’s late I’ll be.’ ‘Aw, yer 
honour,’ sez I, ‘we’ll not have ye late army- how.’ 
An’ I whipped up tha mare, an’ we druv like tha 
divil, indade up — does yer honour know where tha 
Castle o’ Dublin is ? — well, up ta it ; an’ I landed 
him down in foine toime, bedad. An’ off he gits 
at tha dure, an he throws me a shillin’ ; a shillirH , 
yer honour, an’ he goin’ ta dine wid the Lard- 
Lift-nant ! Aw, thin I was that mad, whin I seen tha 
dirty coin, that I was mad enuff for ta throw it 
afther him — ay, up tha gran’ staircase — ay, an’ before 


A NEW NOTE. 


193 


tha gran* John-men in their illigant liveries, an’ tha 
sogers an' pelice an' all ; on’y just I wouldn’t demane 
mesilf. But I’ll tell yer honour I just got down off 
a’ tha car, an’ I bawled afther him, an’ he goin’ up 
tha hall wid tha ould head ov him stuck up in the 
air it id make ye sick for ta look at it ! ‘ Aw, 

thin/ sez I, at the top o’ me voice, ‘Aw, thin/ sez 
I, ‘if his Rxcel-lency could know tha dirty ragga- 
muffin that was goin’ ta dine wid him, it ’ud take 
away his appetite, bedad ; he wouldn’t get over it for 
a month o’ Sundays.’ Heth I did, sir. I didn’t 
care what I sed. An’ two young la-adies that were 
goin’ in, dressed (it would take tha sight from yer 
eyes to look at thim), sure they took ta titthering 
an’ ta laffin’, tha craytures ; an’ sure thin I had for 
ta laff mesilf. But all the same I was that mad 
enuff for annythin’. An’ I’ll tell yer honour, as I 
druv down Dame Street, ye’d think there was a 
fog in tha air from the steam o’ that little mare, 
bedad, ye would, afther the rate I druv her with that 
spalpeen. A shillin', an’ he goin’ ta dine wid tha 
Lard-Lift-nant ! Faith, it might ’a’ riz his ould 
heart to a half-a-crown annyhow. Aw, tha naygur ! ” 
The narrative and Victoria’s laughter were cut 
short by their arrival at the hotel. Mr. Leathley, 
mindful of the delicate hints contained in the fore- 
going recital, was careful to give their voluble Jehu 
not less than double his fare ; a proceeding that drew 
from the latter the emphatic pronouncement that — 
“ His honour was a gintleman, an’ no mistake. 
Faith, a blind man could see that wid one eye. 
An’ long life ta him an’ tha young lady! An’ it 
’ud be a lovely day, plaze God, an’ he could drive 
thim all around Dublin, an’ he’d kape tha mare 

13 


194 


A NEW NOTE. 


as fresh as a daisy for ta take thim about in style , 
bedad ! ” 

But Mr. Leathley intimated that their stay in 
Dublin was only for an hour or two, which put 
an end to any further negotiations. 

At half-past eleven they left the Shelbourne 
Hotel, Victoria again insisting on a car. But this 
time the driver was a taciturn person, who could 
not be drawn into anything further than yea or 
nay, as he drove them smartly through the streets 
and across the quays and the awful-smelling river, 
which Mr. Leathley informed his daughter was the 
“immortal Lififey,” and which no human nose that 
has ever inhaled its especial aroma is ever likely 
to forget. Notwithstanding the smell, however, 
Victoria declared she was enjoying herself greatly, 
as the morning air blew in her face and they rattled 
on finely. 

“ I do think,” she said to her father, as they 
were set down at the railway terminus once more, 
“ that these Irish cars are most exhilarating vehicles.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


The “ Dublin train,” as the country folks call it, 
swept on through the Irish counties ; it swept on 
past cornfields, with the corn in “ stooks,” and 
over bog-lands with the peat-sods, or turf, as they 
say in Ireland, piled up in banks ; it ran along 
by flourishing plantations, and caught, now and 
then, glimpses of winding rivers, or canals ; it steamed 
almost through the heart of picturesque ranges of hills, 
and stopped several times at country railway stations. 

At the latter, Victoria, leaning forward in her 
seat, watched the medley of life, as seen through 
the window of a railway carriage, in this strange, 
almost foreign, land. The noise, and the genial 
way in which every one, each and all, talked 
together at the top of their voices, amused Victoria. 
Even the indefatigable newsboys, running along 
by the open doors of the train, and screaming 
* All the Dublin pa-a-pers, Oirish Toimes and 
Fraymaris Journal ,” seemed to her interesting, by 
reason of their odd, excitable unlikeness to their 
confreres on the other side of the Channel. 

It was nearly four o'clock in the afternoon when 
the train drew up at Kilsallagh station. 

Mr. Leathley flung his newspaper on the seat 
beside him, and stood up. 

“ Here we are ! ” he said, opening the door of the 
railway carriage. 


196 


A NEW NOTE 


Victoria jumped out lightly after him on to the 
platform. 

A young footman, who, Victoria thought, might 
have been an inch taller with advantage, but who 
was sprucely got up in a dark pepper-and-salt 
coloured livery with silver bands on his coat-collar, 
and well-polished silver buttons, came forward and 
touched his hat. 

“ Castle Connaught, sir ? ” he said interrogatively, 
addressing Mr. Leathley, and in a couple of minutes 
Victoria found herself outside the station, a fresh 
breeze from the mountains blowing in her face, 
and the village of Kilsallagh lying before her. 

About half-a-dozen vehicles of different sorts 
were drawn up on the square patch of common 
outside the gate of the railway station. The 
vehicles included two donkey-carts, in one of 
which was seated a picturesque old person, who 
had a red cotton handkerchief, with large white 
spots, tied like a hood over her bonnet. There was 
also a big, clumsy jaunting-car, drawn by a raw- 
boned white horse, and painted bright scarlet, with 
the letters — 

“V. R. 

Royal Mail Car, Kilsallagh,” 

inscribed on the back, a two-wheeled croydon, a 
private omnibus, and an open landau. 

The landau, which was well built and nicely turned 
out, was drawn by a well-matched pair of carriage- 
horses — dark bays, with black points — and was driven 
by a well-shaved coachman, in a livery corresponding 
to that of the footman who had addressed Mr. 
Leathley. 


A NEW NOTE. 


197 


The well-shaved coachman turned his head stiffly 
as the latter appeared, and jerked his whip-hand 
to the brim of his hat. 

"Well, Flynn,” said Mr. Leathley pleasantly, 
knowing the ways of the country, “ how are 
you ? ” 

“ Quite well, thank ye, sir. An’ I hope I see 
ye in good health yerself, sir, an’ Pm glad to see 
ye here again, sir.” 

" Thank you, Flynn. Y ou see I have brought 
my daughter with me this time. This is Miss 
Leathley’s first visit to Ireland.” 

The whip-hand went towards Mr. Flynn’s hat 
again. 

"Ye’re heartily welcome, mam. An’ if it’s the 
first visit, I hope an’ trust it won’t be the last, 
annyhow.” 

Victoria smiled and got into the carriage, and 
the short footman spread the fur rug over their 
knees, and banged the door upon them the next 
minute, with a sort of small flourish, doubtless 
intended for the benefit of the various onlookers. 

" Ha ! ” exclaimed Mr. Leathley — and he leaned 
back, and tilted his hat a little farther over his 
eyes — " it’s a pretty country, isn’t it ? ” 

" Very,” said Victoria dreamily. 

The carriage drove through the short, steep 
village street, crossed the bridge over the river, 
passed the Protestant church and the Roman Catholic 
chapel, and was soon out upon the uplying road, with 
the blue hills lying against the horizon, and the 
wide landscape, which was divided by low hedges 
stretching away before them. It lay divided into 
stubble-fields that looked like burnished gold, and 


A NEW NOTE. 


198 

potato-fields of deep, dark green, and pasture grass 
of brighter verdancy ; and the pale gold rays of 
the sunshine shed a haze of radiant light over 
it all. 

They rolled on swiftly beside the hedgerows, and 
under the shade of lime, and oak, and ash trees, 
and sycamores whose leaves were the colour of ripe 
corn, until, after about twenty minutes, the carriage 
turned in at a very unpretentious gateway, which 
had a square lodge with lattice-windows set in a 
patch of velvety greensward, amid some very fine 
timber. 

“ The avenue,” said Mr. Leathley, breaking the 
silence, “is nearly two miles long. We shall be at 
the house in a quarter of an hour.” 

To Victoria, perhaps on the principle that the 
last stage of a long journey appears interminable, 
the avenue at Castle Connaught seemed as if it 
would never end. Nevertheless, she was genuinely 
delighted with the aspect of the place, the size and 
beauty of the timber, the glimpse of the nearer hills 
all glorious in their autumn clothing of purple 
heather and golden gorse, and the verdant freshness 
of the pasture in the park as the sunshine streaked 
it in long arrowy beams of light through the up- 
standing spread of the trees. 

“Yes,” said her father, in reply to some remark 
of hers ; “ he keeps it all up very well — uncommonly 
well.” 

“ Do look at those grass borders,” continued 
Victoria, pointing across him as she spoke. “ Why 
even Aunt Doll’s eagle eye could scarcely find a 
fault in those grass borders.” 

He smiled. 


A NEW NOTE. 


199 


“ Now Victoria, here’s the first peep of the house. 
Look!” 

Victoria, following his indication, caught a glimpse, 
but only a very bare glimpse, of a grey gable, and 
a window with the flash of level sunbeams on it, 
ere the undulation of the ground hid it from her view 
again. Five minutes later they swept round one more 
graceful curve, and facing them stood the tall gates 
of the courtyard. The former were of finely wrought 
iron-work, and they had the Annesley arms worked 
into the centre of each, and the Annesley crest — a 
deerhound’s head out of a ducal coronet — surmounting 
both. The gates lay open hospitably, and in another 
moment they were within the courtyard, and Castle 
Connaught itself was before them. 

A fine, solid block, built of Irish mountain granite, 
not in the least resembling a castle, but rather in 
the pointed, gabled style for which the comprehensive 
term “ Tudor” covers so much. 

Victoria thought of Jerry as she looked at it. 
Its air of simplicity, of solid, unostentatious worth, 
seemed to her characteristic of its owner. Mr. Flynn, 
with duly effective rush and flurry, drew up at the 
wide, mullioned doorway, which had the Irish motto : 
“ Cead mille failthe ” (A hundred thousand welcomes) 
carved in Celtic lettering on the stone pediment 
above, and Annesley came out on the doorstep to 
welcome them. His fair, smooth hair, in which a 
thread or two of grey showed here and there, was 
ruffled up at the back of his head by the breeze, 
and the colour welled up warmly in his cheeks under 
the fine bronze of his face. 

He had been listening for the sound of his horses’ 
hoofs for ten minutes. As the landau drove up the 


200 


A NEW NOTE. 


avenue and in at the courtyard gates, he saw Victoria 
in the carriage, and all the colour went out of his 
face in the unwonted whirl of agitation that sent 
the blood in a rush upon his heart. But the colour 
had come back, and he looked calm and bright, 
although his hands and his voice shook a little as 
he went forward to meet them. He held Victoria’s 
hand in his with a warm cordial grasp, as he said 
quickly, — 

“ Welcome to Castle Connaught, Victoria.” 

“Ah, Jerry, my boy, how de do?” exclaimed Mr. 
Leathley smilingly. “ Here we are, you see, at last. 
But Victoria is perfectly disgusted with Ireland and 
all its ways. She declares she’ll go home to-morrow.” 

“ Don’t believe him,” said Victoria, who, in 
Annesley’s eyes, was looking as fresh as paint in 
a well-built costume of blue serge. “ I am enjoying 
everything,” she added, as they entered the hall. 

She glanced round as she spoke at the walls of 
polished oak, against which some old Irish pikes 
and other specimens of ancient fire-arms were hung, 
and the wide, square staircase of oak, with a mellow 
light streaming down on the crimson carpeting 
from the oriel window at the head of the stairs. 

“ I am quite enchanted with Ireland,” she con- 
tinued, as they crossed the hall. “But, Jerry, I am 
not pleased with you . You promised when I came 
to Castle Connaught you would send a real Irish 
jaunting-car to meet me, and instead of that I had 
— merely a landau, quite an ordinary landau. I was 
so disgusted ! One might just as well be in England ! ” 

“ Oh,” protested Annesley, as he led the way into 
the library, which opened out, with long windows, 
on to a delightful terrace, “ believe me, Victoria, I 


A NEW NOTE. 


201 


did my best for you ; but the autocrat of the stables, 
Mr. Flynn, was so unfeignedly horrified at the idea 
of anything less than ‘ a pair ’ going to meet visitors 
of distinction to Castle Connaught, that I was obliged 
to give in. The autocrat made it a personal matter. 
It was a case between Mr. Flynn and the pair, or 
Castle Connaught without Mr. Flynn. However, 
you shall have the car to-morrow. Come, now, that’s 
a bargain.” 

“ Castle Connaught,” said Victoria, smiling at him, 
‘is quite lovely. Jerry, I had no idea there was 
such beauty in Ireland.” 

Annesley was deeply gratified. To have her here, 
to see her so pleased with the home of which he was 
so fond and proud, was infinitely delightful to him. 

“ I know,” he said, ringing the bell, “ that you 
would like to see your room, and to rest before 
dinner. Dinner is at eight. I have told my house- 
keeper, Mrs. O’Callaghan, to have some tea ready 
for you in your room. I fancied you would prefer 
to have it there to-day. I have given you my 
mother’s room, and the little boudoir that she was 
so fond of opens from the bedroom. Please tell 
me if there is anything else you would like, or any 
fault in their arrangements. The windows, I think, 
give you one of our best views, and perhaps Castle 
Connaught may have the honour of inspiring a new 
opera, or — something in that line.” 

Victoria went up to her room, and to the little 
boudoir, where Jerry’s housekeeper had a dainty 
little tea and some delicious hot cakes all ready 
for her, and where the view from the windows was 
delectable enough to have delighted a less artistic 
person than she was. 


202 


A NEW NOTE. 


She gazed out over the descending terraces of 
cut granite, to a large parterre of gaily hued flower- 
beds, set in the soft brilliant sward which already 
she had begun to mark as something peculiar, in 
the richness of its verdure, to Ireland. The farthest 
edge of the parterre was bounded by a dark belt 
of fir-trees, while a gleam of silvery river or lake 
glanced through the red trunks, and above and 
beyond all rose up the heather-covered hills, patched 
with rocky boulders and clumps of yellow gorse. 

It was a fair, serene corner of the Irish land. 

The daylight was dying fast, and the crows were 
swirling home to roost, all croaking together, like 
the people at the railway stations. 

Victoria, with a long, wistful look at it all, tore 
herself away from the window. Her limbs felt weak 
and shaky as she lay down on the sofa in the boudoir, 
but in five minutes her eyes were closed, and she 
slept soundly for nearly two hours. 


CHAPTER XX, 


The days that followed slipped by very rapidly. 
Annesley, true to a promise he had made Victoria 
had no one staying in the house except themselves. 
Once or twice he had a couple of men from the 
neighbouring garrison to dine and sleep, and Victoria 
meekly endured a dinner-party ; but for the most 
part they were as free from “ people, and bores,” as 
she coolly expressed it, as possible. 

Mr. Leathley amused himself satisfactorily with 
a little mild cub-hunting, and a good deal of mild 
shooting, chiefly partridge, with a turn or two at 
duck on the bog. Annesley devoted himself to 
the study of Victoria’s wants and wishes, and Vic- 
toria gave herself up to the enjoyment of the 
present spell of rest and refreshment, and en- 
deavoured to live from day to day without bother- 
ing about the future. She managed this so 
successfully, indeed, that as their visit drew to its 
inevitable close, a feeling of unfeigned regret at 
the prospect of bidding good-bye to this pleasant, 
peaceful, Irish home, and the pleasant, peaceful life, 
took a deep hold upon her. 

When she rose on the last morning of their stay f 
and looked out at the now familiar view, she sighed 
with a qualm of something nearly approaching to 
sorrow at the thought of how very soon it would 
all be but a pleasant memory. 

203 


204 


A NEW NOTE. 


This last day at Castle Connaught was a calm 
grey autumn day. Victoria felt depressed — a physical 
as well as mental depression, impossible to shake 
off. She looked white at breakfast, Annesley 
thought, with a little surprise ; for of late the fresh 
country air, that had a touch of the Atlantic brine 
mingled with the mountain breezes, had brought 
up a faint tinge of healthful pink into her pallid 
cheeks. She smiled slightly once or twice as she 
met Annesley’s eyes fixed on her, but she was very 
silent, and he worried himself with the idea that 
the usual supply of good things at the morning 
meal were not quite to her taste. 

Mr. Leathley, it was evident, was in a great 
hurry to get off for his last “ go at the partridges,” 
as he expressed it ; for he was bolting his breakfast 
like a school-boy, and at a rate that would have 
made Mrs. Edmund Leathley give him a lecture 
on the dangers of indigestion — had she been present. 

Annesley looked again at Victoria. 

He turned to Mr. Leathley. 

“ I think,” he said, “ if you don’t mind, I’ll come 
back and lunch here, with Victoria — if she’ll have 
me,” he added, with a little smile. 

Victoria smiled too — a small, fleeting smile. 

“ I told Orme and Huleat,” pursued Annesley, 
‘ that they could peg away this week as much as 
they liked, so we’ll probably fall in with them, and 
I’ll send some grub down with Paddy.” 

Orme and Huleat were two members of the 
neighbouring garrison, and Paddy was one of 
Annesley’s under-keepers. 

“ Oh, Paddy ! ” exclaimed Mr. Leathley, who 
acquiesced good-humouredly in any arrangement, so 


A NEW NOTE. 


205 


long as he got to his beloved partridges. "Paddy 
is a capital fellow. Paddy and I are great friends 
That chap's first-rate company, let me tell you." 

“ Then that’s all right," said Annesley. “ I’ll 
come and start you all off ; and then I thought we 
might either ride or walk to the top of the Rocky 
Valley. I want you to see that bit of view before 
you go." 

He turned to Victoria as he said "we.” 

"Let us walk, Jerry," she said promptly. 

Annesley looked delighted. 

" By all means,” he said at once. " I think 
it will be far jollier. But you’re sure you’d rather 
not do anything else ? — come with the guns, or any- 
thing ? ” 

"Oh no,” she said quickly. "Besides, I really 
must look after my packing this morning. You 
know how early we start to-morrow, and there is 
not so very much time before luncheon." 

A shadow crossed Annesley’s face. He stood 
up and went over to the sideboard. A minute or 
two passed before he spoke again. 

" I sha’n’t be later than half-past two,” he said to 
Victoria, as he followed Mr. Leathley out of the 
room ; " but don’t wait luncheon for me, that’s 
all.” 

He got back just as Victoria had, in obedience 
to his wish, finished luncheon. He told her that 
they had fallen in with Or me and Huleat, and 
that her father seemed to be having a really good 
time. 

" Paddy,” concluded Annesley, " told me this 
morning that, ‘ Be jabers, a man on a gallopin' 
horse wouldn’t know Mr. Leathley from a raal 


20 6 


A NEW NOTE. 


Irishman, he’s that cheerful and gay in himself, 
and that free and pleasant with every one, bedad. 
And Parliament gents, faith, does be that set up 
in thimselves, the most of thim, they’d turn a horse 
from his oats with the consait of thim. There’s 
Thady O’Shan, now — that’s our mimber, and he 
gave the go-by to his own mother, bedad, he did, 
since the head was riz off of him by being a 
Parliament gint ; an’ he the son of O’Shan, that 
was the priest’s own general man an’ nothin’ more ! 
Just did up the garden, and yoked the pony.’ 
Yes,” added Annesley, “Paddy told me all that — 
and a good deal more ; at least, he repeated it 
very often in different words.” 

Victoria laughed, and went off to put on her hat. 

She found Annesley, on her return, on the 
terrace, leaning against one of the library windows, 
in the act of lighting a cigarette. 

They started forthwith at a good brisk pace. 

It was an ideal day for walking. The sun was 
not too hot, and the wind was not too cold. The 
roads were hard and dry, but free from dust, 
owing to the slight rain which had fallen the night 
before. 

Annesley and Victoria walked on for a con- 
siderable distance, in silence. 

One of the most restful things which Victoria 
found in being with him was that he didn’t bore her 
with perpetual talk, or expect her to talk perpetually 
to him either. They were, indeed, on terms of 
friendship and familiarity so perfect that the 
horrible duty of making conversation was wholly 
unnecessary. 

Just then they were both a good deal engrossed 


A NEW NOTE. 


207 


with their own thoughts. And the thoughts 
of both were a good deal tinged with regret. 
Annesley’s, indeed, were gloomy enough. A time 
of much enjoyment to him was at an end, and there 
was, so far as he could see, nothing left to look 
forward to. Every time he looked at Victoria he 
felt a tightness at his heart as he thought of how 
hopeless the future seemed. He realised now that 
her visit to Castle Connaught had been a mistake, 
because it would make him more discontented than 
ever with his home, and with his life, without her. 
Yet he would have given a good deal for the possibility 
of repeating the mistake for another few weeks. 

Victoria's feelings, on the other hand, were scarcely 
less melancholy. She had brought herself to believe 
that if she could only stay here at Castle Connaught 
for ever she would be comparatively contented and 
happy. At least, she was convinced that a long spell 
of time spent in this quiet country place, utterly 
removed, as it was, from every association of her 
ordinary life, was the one thing needed to complete 
the eradication of those disturbing forces which of 
late had made her life intolerable. She was even 
persuaded that the process of eradication had already 
begun — that time, and an existence under such 
conditions as those of the present, would do the rest. 

Victoria was making a mistake, but it is one 
that is made every day. 

She was mistaking the numbness of feeling which 
is apt to supervene upon intense emotional excite- 
ment for the death of feeling itself. 

Yet a lurking suspicion of insecurity troubled 
her, for she was ready to clutch at any plank of 
safety which seemed nearest. 


208 


A NEW NOTE. 


As she walked on now with Annesley up the 
grey valley of stones under the purple hills, she 
could have cried aloud for a longer respite of time 
— precious time — in which to drive out the folly 
that possessed her. She loved Castle Connaught 
genuinely, because it had helped her, she believed, 
to do so. The prospect of losing its aid was all the 
more sad. She felt that she wanted every vestige 
of aid. She knew her own folly so excellently well 

That is the best — or the worst — of a woman 
having a clear head, and a complex organisation. 

Annesley took Victoria up a bit of the nearest 
hill, as he wanted her to get the view of the distant 
Atlantic which was to be obtained from a certain 
point on a low arm of the mountain. Their path 
was through clustering ridges of great bracken fern, 
the pathway itself having been made chiefly by 
the sheep and goats. When they reached the point 
of vantage, Victoria, resting on her stick, looked 
over seawards. Even the ocean lay still and grey 
on this still, grey day. 

Quite in silence they both began to descend once 
more, Annesley walking in front of his companion, 
and giving her, from time to time, sundry warn- 
ings as to avoiding the rabbit-holes and loose stones* 
which made it very easy for unwary pedestrians to 
twist their ankles. 

At the head of the Rocky Valley they sat down 
to rest. 

Victoria leaned back comfortably in a delightful 
nest of heather, and gazed round her dreamily. 

Annesley watched her from under the flap of 
his light-coloured tweed cap. He fancied she looked 
better, less tired and pale, than at breakfast 


A NEW NOTE. 


209 


“ How still it is ! ” she said suddenly. 

It was intensely still. Even the faint popping of 
guns which they had heard lower down in the 
valley, betokening that the shooters were still at 
work with the partridges, was out of earshot here. 
Here in the wide, solitary grey valley, not a sound 
broke the fragrant air, except the delicate, mono- 
tonous gurgling of a mountain streamlet at the 
opposite side of the rocky road. Far away, over 
towards their right, was a gleaming white cabin, a 
thin line of blue smoke going up quite straight from 
its crooked chimney in the roof of discoloured thatch. 

Victoria’s eyes followed the thin blue line absently. 

Annesley, watching her unawares, sat very still. 
He would have given much to have been able to 
discover what her thoughts were as she sat there, 
with her eyes fixed on the white cabin. 

He started at the sound of a young, shrill voice 
almost in his ear. 

The owner of the voice was a barefooted young 
gentleman of about twelve summers, who was in 
charge of a cavalcade of three panniered donkeys, the 
heavy brown panniers being loaded with peat-sods. 
The cavalcade, followed by the gentleman in charge, 
came round the bend of the road, passing Annesley 
and Victoria closely. It was the sight of the 
former which had made the barefooted young 
gentleman lift up his voice so shrilly, and startle 
Annesley as he bade the donkeys to “ Hould on ow 
a that ! ” while in the next breath he inquired affably 
“ If his honour’s lardship ’ud be wantin’ a load 
o’ turf?” 

His honour’s lordship did not happen to want 
a load of — probably his own — turf. 


14 


210 


A NEW NOTE. 


Such being intimated to the young gentleman, 
the latter politely demanded “a copper” for 
“ standing on his head to amuse his honour’s lady.” 

Annesley flung him sixpence, partly to get rid 
of him quickly, and partly because Victoria laughed 
and seemed quite delighted with his acrobatic per- 
formances. In return for such unwonted bounty, 
the young gentleman again stood on his head 
three times in succession, waving his bare brown 
feet enthusiastically in Victoria’s face. He took 
his departure at length, after a prolonged stare at 
the latter out of his big, brown, velvety eyes, and 
a valedictory statement to the effect that — 

“Sure, he’d lave his honour’s lardship tha whole 
load o’ turf for another saxpince and a pair av 
ould boots.” 

After this the silence remained unbroken again 
for a little while. 

Victoria, whose lap was strewn with sprigs of 
the purple heather, pulled off her loose chamois 
gloves, and began to put the sprigs together deftly 
into a little posy. Annesley’s eyes followed the 
movements of her small, firm, white fingers. She 
looked up suddenly into his face, and smiled. 

“Well, Jerry, we’ll remember this day, won’t we? 
Do you know, you’ve given us a lovely time.” 

Annesley’s heart beat quickly. A mist went 
before his eyes. 

“ Nonsense ! ” he said, almost brusquely. “ I’ve 
done simply nothing worth speaking of.” 

He was trying to keep himself well in hand. The 
effort to do so hurt him more than even he would 
have imagined. He was wrestling with a mad 
longing to take the small broad hand next to him 


A NEW NOTE. 


21 1 


that was holding the heather, and cover it with kisses. 
He thrust his own hand into the pocket of his coat, 
and kept it there with the fingers clenched, and see 
his teeth hard. 

Victoria was not paying him any attention. The 
latter had been attracted, while he was speaking, to 
something on the wide, hilly road 'which wound 
upwards between the hills. She turned to Annesley 
with a sudden exclamation. 

“ I say, Jerry, what can that be coming along 
there in the distance ?” 

The words recalled Annesley to himself. 

“ Look ! ” said Victoria again quickly ; and she 
pointed up towards the road as she said it. 

He followed the direction of her outstretched 
hand. He knitted his brows together as he stared 
hard into the distance. 

“ By Jove ! ” he exclaimed, in a minute, “it’s a pro- 
cession of some sort.” 

He stood up as he spoke, and strained his eyes 
still farther, as a long stream of moving colour 
showing red, and blue, and green patches, wound 
slowly in and out on the high mountain road. 

“ Oh, look here,” said Annesley, after a little pause, 
“ it's a funeral, Victoria. They’re coming from Ard- 
more, to Kilsallagh churchyard, by the mountain road. 
It’s no end of a journey, but in Ireland a funeral 
always goes by the longest way. I think perhaps 
we’d better wait till they pass, before we move on.” 

Victoria nodded. She was standing up now, 
beside Annesley, and her eyes were fixed upon the 
advancing procession. 

“ How picturesque it is ! ” she murmured, half tp 
herself, as it came closer, 


212 


A NEW NOTE. 


“ It’s a young girl’s funeral,” said Annesley, lower- 
ing his voice, as the funeral train came closer. u Look, 
Victoria, don’t you see, the bearers are young girls.” 

Then Victoria saw that the somewhat small coffin 
was being borne on the shoulders of six young girls. 

Just as the procession came up to where they 
were standing, it paused, to allow a change of 
bearers. The latter were all brightly attired in their 
best dresses, the two foremost wearing crimson- 
coloured cashmeres and pink flowers in their black 
straw hats. 

There were indeed none of the hideous trappings 
and suits of woe that Civilisation puts on to carry 
its loved ones to their last resting-place, in this 
humble funeral, here in the heart of the Irish 
mountains. Even the clustering blossoms of scarlet 
geranium, the purple and pink asters that were 
strewn without any formality of arrangement, but 
as if in a soft shower of pretty profusion, on the 
coffin-lid, did not seem incongruous. 

It was the burial of youth and maidenhood ; 
and the pathetic recognition of this, which every 
adjunct betrayed, was inexpressibly touching to 
Victoria. 

Annesley, standing with his cap in his hand, as the 
coffin, with its flower-strewn lid, and its young, sad- 
faced bearers moved slowly past them, turned again 
to his companion. 

“ Victoria,” he whispered softly, “ do you think 
you would mind walking with them just to where 
the roads part? We generally do it in Ireland if 
we meet a country funeral — in fact, it’s supposed to 
be very unlucky to meet a funeral on the road, and 
not to go a Tew steps on the way’ with it” 


A NEW NOTE. 


213 


Victoria assented at once, and they walked in 
the rear of the short procession to where the roads 
parted. From that point, Annesley and Victoria, 
still keeping in the valley, turned towards home. 

Victoria, as she walked beside Annesley, with the 
purple heather in her hands, looked sad. He noticed 
quickly the tired curve of her lips, and he could 
have sworn that her usually cold, inscrutable eyes 
were dim with tears. 

He drew a shade closer to her. And again, his 
heart began to beat heavily and very rapidly. 

Some subtle communication of his agitation may 
have passed between them, for almost immediately 
Victoria made a perceptible effort to pull herself 
together. In a moment her face had resumed its 
normal expression of slightly sarcastic weariness. 

But Annesley's agitation was not to be conquered 
so easily. He caught his breath quickly, and the 
colour paled in his face. He smiled then — a little, 
dry smile. 

“ Satisfactory world, ain't it ? ” he said suddenly. 

The words, which had a sneer in them, seemed 
wrung involuntarily from him. 

Victoria started as he spoke. 

“ What do you mean ? ” she said quickly. 

She looked at him rather in surprise as she said it. 

“ Mean ? ” echoed Annesley, with the sneer still 
in his face. “ Oh, God knows ! ” 

He looked back at her, and her eyes fell. She 
was extremely unnerved at that moment, and all 
at once an intolerable tremor of nervousness shook 
the very centres of her being. 

“ Oh, Jerry, don't, dorit go on like that!” — her 
voice had a cry of appeal in it, that showed her 


214 


A NEW NOTE. 


weakness — “ how can I — how can we help it all ? 
Oh, what is the good of anything ? ” 

She laughed bitterly, and the expression of her 
face changed. 

“ Oh, good gracious, what a goose I am, vapouring 
away like this at my age ! ” 

The effort of her voice to get back to the ordinary 
coldness of its intonation roused Annesley. 

His fair, sunburnt face flushed warmly ; his voice, 
when he spoke, shook and quivered. 

“ Victoria ” — he spoke fast, and imploringly — 
“ Victoria, Victoria, do let me speak once more ; 
only once more ! Look here, there’s no use beating 
about the bush. I can't get over it. I’ve done 
my best, God knows, but I can’t. I don’t want to 
worry you, or to persecute you, or to behave like 
a cad ; but ” — he drew in his breath sharply — “ it’s 
very hard. Of course, if you cared for any other 
fellow, I suppose I’d have to grin and bear it ; but 
you don’t. And what in God’s name is the good of 
you and I drifting down our whole lives when we 
might be — together, and — get some good out of it 
all. It’s not the same as it was the last time. You 
are secure now, and all that, and I should never 
try to interfere in any way. Let me, darling, let 
me make you happy. I know I could do it — if 
only you would let me try. I know I could, 
though I daresay you think it’s jolly cheek for a 
one-horse chap dn the way of brains to say so to 
a great swell like you Let me try, Victoria ; give 
me a chance. Why should you be so afraid, my 
darling ? Goodness knows you know me, and I 
know you well enough ! It’s not like an acquaintance 
of yesterday ; and I don’t fancy I’m a fellow to 


A NEW NOTE. 


215 


change. You do rather like me, don’t you? and 
we always hit it off like anything together. Why 
should you be afraid?” 

“ Oh, Fm not afraid,” exclaimed Victoria; “only 
— give me time to think.” 

She stopped and sat down suddenly on a bit of 
a low wall, and covered her face with her hands. 
He waited patiently for a while. At last he sat 
down beside her, and drew her hands into his own. 
She did not resist him. All power of resistance 
seemed to have gone out of her. 

Everything at the moment was in chaos about 
her. 

Only, above the chaos, words of one who was 
older, and, she believed now, wiser than herself, 
rang once more in her ear, — 

“ Perhaps some day you will find, as many a 
woman has found, that a safe, comfortable marriage 
cuts the black knot of a woman’s difficulties in the 
only effectual and permanent way.” 

Would it not be well to seek relief and safety in 
the way that her dear old friend had said was the 
only safe and permanent one? 

She would be safe with Jerry, if ever woman 
was safe with man. Would it not be well 
therefore ? 

Quite suddenly a wild impulse seized her to tell 
Annesley once for all about Loevio. 

But the impulse died as it sprang into existence. 

How could she tell him ? 

Loevio had never yet dared to speak openly to 
her. She knew he loved her. For what is speech 
between a man and a woman who love each 
other ? But, all the same, she could not tell 


21 6 


A NEW NOTE. 


Annesley of it There are things that a woman 
cannot tell. 

And in the meantime Annesley still held her 
hands in his, and gazed at her pleadingly. 

She let her hands remain thus, clasped warmly 
in his, without any feeling of repugnance. 

She had no feeling of repugnance to him at any 
time, except, indeed, when he looked at her with 
a certain expression in his eyes. But now, at this 
time, even this failed to repel her. 

Presently she even allowed him to raise her 
hands and hold them against his breast ; she was 
quite silent, and made no attempt to resist him 
when he drew her closer to him, and, with his head 
bent towards hers, said again, — 

“ Victoria, darling, give me the chance. Don't be 
afraid to trust me.” 

She looked up into his honest, pleading eyes with 
her own little cold, dark ones, and she drew her 
hands away quickly. 

“ I — I will do anything you like.” 

Her voice was hoarse as she uttered the words, 
and her face went white — as white as death. She 
stood up and shrank away from him when, as the 
colour rushed into his face, he stretched out his 
hands towards her, and a little, sharp cry broke 
from his lips. 

“Wait!” Annesley's voice, as he uttered the one 
short word, regained its usual quietness. “ Don't 
please look so scared, as if you would like to run 
away. I sha’n't do a thing you don't like. Only 
tell me once more, Victoria, that you really do mean 
it truly. 

And Victoria said she did mean it 


A NEW NOTE. 


217 


He caught her hands again, and held them 
against his breast. 

“God helping me, you shall never regret it.” 

She smiled, as he said it — an odd little, wan smile. 

“ I say, Victoria ” (with a sudden change of tone), 
“ I want you, there’s a dear, to give me a bit of 
that heather.” 

He just touched the sprays of it which she 
had stuck in her belt. 

He released her hands, and she took a sprig or 
two out of her belt and held them towards him 
with a hand that shook a good deal. Annesley 
took the hand and the heather a fast prisoner in 
his own. 

“ I want you,” he said again coaxingly, “ to 
fasten it in my coat ; here’s the button-hole,” he 
added, guiding her fingers up to it at the same time. 

Victoria laughed ; but it was a faint, tremulous 
laugh. 

“Do you know, Jerry, it strikes me we are 
growing uncommonly silly ! Fancy you going on 

like a man in a book, the regular, orthodox ” 

She paused, and her, face did flush ever so little, as 
Jerry coolly added, — 

“Lover, Victoria. Well, look here, dearest, I’ve 
been wanting to be an orthodox lover for years 
and years, and upon my soul it’s rough on a chap 
to be jeered at just when he gets an innings at last. 
Now you’ll fasten that heather in as a punishment 
for your sins.” 

She looked at him as she pulled the sprigs of 
heather through his button-hole. 

“ Oh, Jerry, my sins ; you don’t know the half of 
my sins!” 


2l8 


A NEW NOTE. 


“ Darling ! " said Annesley contentedly, as if the 
contemplation of her sins would add the one element 
of perfection to his existence. 

“ Upon my word, you're easily pleased," pursued 
Victoria. “Yes, you are. Well, don't blame me if 
by-and-by you find I'm a whited sepulchre. Re- 
member, this is not my doing. There, there's your 
precious bit of heather fixed in now. It looks rather 
well against the light tweed." 

She put her head on one side and contemplated 
it critically. 

“ Do you know, Jerry, you haven't bad taste at 
all in tweeds. I'm so glad, for I don't think 
I could stand it if you had. I can stand a 
good deal, but there's a limit. Don't laugh like 
that ; it's very serious. Now, look here, my dear 
boy, don't you think it's about time we went home ? 
If we don't turn up pretty soon you’ll have my 
respected father and the bellman of the locality — 
if there is a bellman — and all your servants scour- 
ing the country for the long-lost che-ild. Come on, 
Jerry ! " 

“ I'd like to stay here for ever ! " said Annesley 
regretfully. 

“ Should you ? Well, I shouldn't. Come on , Jerry ! 
Don't try to be sentimental, dear boy — you're not 
built that way." 

Annesley laughed. 

“Well, I suppose it is about time we went home 
— my home and yours, eh, Victoria ? " 

He slipped his hand through her arm as he said 
it, and drew her close to his side. But he didn't 
dare kiss her — yet 

She smiled up in his face quite brilliantly. The 


A NEW NOTE 


219 


prospect of Castle Connaught as a home was very 
grateful to her. She loved the fair Irish place which 
had given her a way of escape. Already the release 
from the strain of indecision was delightful — quite 
delightful. 

The shadows were beginning to fall heavily, and 
a faint, roseate flush under the grey canopy of cloud 
showed that the sun was sinking to rest when 
Victoria and Annesley crossed the park at Castle 
Connaught once more. Throughout the homeward 
walk Victoria had scarcely listened to what Annesley 
was saying; but the sense of his presence, and the 
warm pressure of his hand on hers, gave her a 
feeling of security and protection. For the first time 
in her life she craved protection ; for the first time 
in her life she was grateful for it. 

She told herself that the man beside her deserved 
well at her hands. She assured herself that she 
meant to do well in the future which lay before 
them both. Altogether, the future looked satisfactory. 
It might have all been so much worse! Victoria 
thought of that now. 

There comes a point in the lives ot most people 
when the thought of how much better things might 
be is superseded by the thought of how much worse 
they might easily be ; and a feeling of thankfulness 
that they are not worse alters and colours the current 
of hopes and wishes. 

Victoria had — nearly — reached this point now. It 
is the point where youth departs and maturity enters 
upon its steadier course. There are compensations 
to be found even in maturity. 

Victoria had nearly reached this point — nearly 
not quite, for, as the gates of the courtyard clanged 


220 


A NEW NOTE. 


behind herself and Annesley, a swift reaction of 
thought became in a moment a quick and horrible 
revulsion of feeling ; for, to her overstrained fancy, 
the sharp reverberation of the clanging iron bars and 
locks was the echo of her own imprisonment. 

Oh, why had she done this ? Why should she 
do this? How could she be mad enough to make 
herself a prisoner with her own hands ? 

In one second all the fair prospect of the future 
became intolerable. 

And just because Annesley, in his haste, let the 
gate swing to, till it slammed violently behind them, 
that absurd trifle changed the whole face of things. 

An absurd trifle. But then, so much in life is 
made up of absurd trifles! 

Victoria shivered ; she felt cold all in a moment. 
Annesley, looking at her when they entered the 
warm, softly-lighted hall, wondered at the extreme 
pallor of her face. His love, which was throbbing 
with every beat of his heart, and coursing through 
his veins only too strongly, almost broke down every 
barrier of prudence. 

“ You are tired, 1 ” he exclaimed quickly, and speak- 
in a low and very tender voice. “ Darling, darling, 
you have walked too far ! ” 

“ Oh no,” said Victoria hurriedly ; “ no, no, not 
in the least. Don’t fuss, Jerry, there’s a dear! Let 
me go and rest.” 

And she escaped from him before he dared touch 
her, and fled away up the staircase. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


VICTORIA was in perfectly wild spirits the next day. 

During the entire journey up to Dublin she rallied 
Annesley and her father in a fashion that reduced 
them both to incessant fits of helpless laughter. 

Annesley, who was going only as far as Dublin, 
was inclined to be gloomy at the contradictory 
engagements which just at that moment entailed 
his presence at Castle Connaught, and debarred him 
from seeing anything of Victoria for some weeks 
to come. But it was useless to attempt anything 
like a regretful sadness with Victoria sitting opposite 
to him, and hurling one nonsensical sally after 
another at him from the corner of the railway 
carriage. 

“ I am so glad you’re Irish ! ” she said to him, 
quite suddenly. “ It suits me so much better, you 
see. You don’t mind my being a little mad now 
and then. Because Irish people are all a little mad, 
aren’t they?” 

Annesley only laughed helplessly. 

“ Oh, don’t laugh, Jerry. You’ve no idea how 
comfortable the prospect is to me ! I assure you 
it’s nothing to laugh at. Now to-morrow, when 
I’m in England, I shall feel quite proper and sober 
again. To-morrow ! ” She bit her lips, and her 
smile ended in a sigh. “What a bore to-morrow 
will be!” 


222 


A NEW NOTE. 


“ Will it?” said Annesley eagerly. “Will it really, 
Victoria ? ” 

Mr. Leathley, seeing Annesley’s face as he spoke, 
took a sudden resolution. He was a man and a 
brother, he told himself, and he had the fellow- 
feelings of a man and a brother. He’d do his best 
for old Jerry under the circumstances. 

He knew they had an hour or two to spare in 
Dublin. They had no sooner arrived once more 
at the Shelbourne Hotel than he declared he must 
go out. He wanted, he said, to buy a silk muffler. 
He had no silk muffler with him ; and it was very 
cold, he said, and he couldn’t possibly cross over 
to England that evening without a muffler. 

“ All right,” said Victoria. “ I’ll come with you.” 

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said her father 
authoritatively ; for had he not the feelings of a man 
and a brother? “You’ll stay where you are, and 
rest yourself.” 

Victoria looked at him as he said it 

Annesley was afraid to speak. 

Victoria twirled round on one foot. 

“ Oh ! So I’m to rest?” she said coolly. “ Very well 
Jerry, you may as well rest too. Look here, I’ve 
a good mind to race you to the end of the corridor. 
I believe they’ve given us a sitting-room away down 
there — ninety-one, or two, or three, or something.” 
She looked down the long, empty passage as she 
spoke. “Do you dare me to race you, Jerry?” 

Annesley only smiled and shook his head. 

Victoria laughed. 

“ Don’t buy large flowers on the pattern of your 
muffler,” she said to her father. “ If you do I won’t 
travel with you. Now, then, Jerry, are you ready 


A NEW NOTE. 


223 


to run? I don’t believe you can run one little bit 
You should ’ you know. You’ll get too fat, Jerry.” 

Nevertheless, all the time she was saying it she 
was walking quite staidly down the passage, with 
Annesley beside her. “This is the room, I think. 
* Leastways ,’ if it ain’t, they can turn us out. Now, 
I’m going to rest and be thankful, as the advertise- 
ments say.” 

She sat down at one end of the sofa. 

“It’s not a bad little room, is it?” she continued, 
looking up in his face. “ I could make it quite 
pretty ; but hotel-rooms ” 

He seated himself beside her, and tried to capture 
her hands. 

“ Darling,” he began quickly, “ it’s maddening to 
think of your going away just like this ! I have 
so much to say to you, and to ask you ! ” 

“Have you, Jerry? Well, I’ll tell you how to 
do it. Write it all down on ruled paper, with 
Q. and A., you know, alternately — first your question 
and then a blank space for the answer — and send 
the papers to me, and I’ll fill ’em up 4 to the best 
of my ability, sir,’ as the servants say when you, 
hire them.” 

He laughed — he couldn’t help it ; and Victoria 
drew away from him a little. The next moment 
she found him looking at her wistfully. She smiled 
into his eyes with a softer, kinder little smile than 
any which he had seen there yet. His heart beat 
quicker. 

“ Victoria,” he began again — and he got hold of her 
hands successfully this time — “you are bewildering 
to a poor fellow like me. My sweetest, I wanted 
to tell you ” 


224 


A NEW NOTE. 


Victoria flung his hands off, and jumped up. 
“ Oh, I can't” she said to herself. “ N.B., not to 
sit on a sofa again. It’s a good thing to remember. 
I'm stupid about it; but then, I’ve never been 
engaged before. Oh, what a beast I am, to be 
sure ! But " 

She seated herself at the table in the middle of 
the room. 

Annesley was standing now, but he made no 
attempt to follow her. Something in his attitude, 
and in the turn of his head, touched Victoria to 
the quick. 

“ Jerry!” he started and looked round at the 
sound of her voice. “ Don't stand a hundred miles 
away. Come round here and talk comfortably." 

‘ I will be good this time," she added to herself. 

He came round and stood beside her. 

Victoria laid a hand on his sleeve. 

“ Now go on with what you wanted to say." 

He clasped the hand which rested on his sleeve 
with one of his own, and looked down into her 
up-turned eyes. 

Victoria began to laugh softly again. 

Annesley’s face cleared. 

“ You’re the most provoking " he said, laughing 

himself as he said it. 

“ Oh yes, I know I am," she returned, with 
perfect composure. “ I always was. You’ll have 
to put up with it, Jerry. At least, don’t, if you 
don’t like. I offer you your liberty, Jerry. There! 
I offer it to you. Take it, and never see my face 
again! Isn’t that melodramatic and splendid? What? 
You won’t? Misguided man! They always say 
misguided man in melodramas — misguided man 


A NEW NOTE. 


225 


oh — er — where was I, and what did I mean to say- 
next? IVe forgotten. Well, it don't matter much." 

Annesley’s hand pressed hers. She allowed him 
to press it quite meekly. 

“ Look here, darling," he began gently, “ I wanted 
to talk to you about the future." 

She uttered a little groan. 

“Oh, Jerry, the future. Oh, bother the future! 
And the future is a bother. Let us stick to the 
present. Oh, Jerry, I shall often think of dear 
Ireland, and the good time I’ve had now." 

“ You do like Ireland?" he broke in quickly. 

“I adore Ireland, Jerry." 

He smiled, only too well pleased. 

“But, darling, remember that you must never 
bore yourself to be here more than you like. I 
want you to understand, my dearest, that you are 
to be perfectly free — I mean, after our marriage. 
You must just come to Ireland whenever you like. 
I haven’t the smallest intention of cooping you 
up for ever and ever at Castle Connaught. We 
shall be as much as possible in London. 

She interrupted him quickly. 

“London — I hate London! No, no, Jerry, give 
me Castle Connaught, whatever you do, for my 
abode." 

“ I do believe,” he said, smiling at her warmly, 
‘ that you are downright in love with Castle 
Connaught." 

Victoria nodded. 

“I am, Jerry; absolutely in love with Castle 
Connaught." 

“ It's evident," returned Annesley, and he smiled 
again, “that I'm to take a back seat." 


15 


226 


A NEW NOTE. 


“ You ! ” said Victoria. “ You are nothing. Jerry, 
you are a deluded man. You’re like a man in a 
three-volume novel, and I’m a cold-hearted, calcu- 
lating creature, a mercenary monster, and I’m marry- 
ing you for your castle and broad-lands. Isn’t that 
how they put it? Yes, think of that, Jerry — you’re 
going to marry a cold, calculating creature ! ” 

She clasped her hands in front of her on the table 
and shook her head. Annesley laughed with com- 
plete relish. Victoria shook her head despairingly. 

“ I can’t get you to realise your position, Jerry.” 

“ My darling,” he exclaimed quickly, “ I cannot 
indeed realise my own good fortune. I cannot realise 
yet, Victoria, that you really are mine at last.” 

“ Ah ! ” murmured Victoria mournfully, “ yours at 
last! It sounds like the end of a love-letter, Jerry. 
By the way, Jerry, don’t expect me to write love- 
letters. I couldn’t do such a thing, not to save my 
life. And as to undertaking to write a letter once 
a week, my dear boy, I wouldn’t undertake to write 
a letter once a week to the Queen — not if she 
entreated me her own self. I couldn’t, really ! ” 
Annesley caught her clasped hands in his and 
kissed them again and again. 

“ You’re incorrigible,” he said, when he could speak 
again for laughing, “ you perfect, heavenly darling ! ” 
Victoria, getting her hands free once more, leaned 
back in her chair. 

“ How nice,” she said composedly, “ to have all 
that settled, and to think that I’m a perfect, heavenly 
darling ! Well, you’re the first to find out that I 
am at all heaverily , Jerry.” 

She sat up and, leaning her elbows on the table, 
rested her chin on the palms of her hands. 


A NEW NOTE. 


227 


“Now, Jerry, do attend, please; and — no, don't. 
Do leave off trying to grab my hands. This is 
serious. I'm going to reform you, dear boy. First 
of all, I want you, like a dear, not to wear that hat 
again. Oh, Jerry, I cant marry a man who wears 
a brown billycock hat. I can’t. I know nice people 
do wear brown billycock hats ; but I can’t stand them, 
Jerry, and I can’t have you wear ’em. If you love 
me, Jerry, wear a black one.” 

“ I’ll go and buy a black one now,” said Annesley 
quite seriously. 

He made a step in the direction of the obnoxious 
brown one as he spoke. 

Victoria calmly caught his sleeve. 

“It’s so dear of you, Jerry, to take it like 
that ; but you needn’t bother about it now, because 
you’re not going to wear your hat in the house, I 
suppose, and I sha’n’t have much more time to look 
at you before we start.” 

His face turned white as she uttered the last 
words. 

“ It is going so quickly, the time ! ” he said, and 
his voice shook. As he spoke he knelt down beside 
her chair. Victoria’s face grew whiter than his own 
as his arms went round her. She felt sick and faint ; 
but she fought with both, and conquered, or thought 
she did. Annesley’s lips were close to hers. She 
threw back her head with a gesture of intolerable 
impatience. She could feel his arms trembling as 
they held her, his quick, hot breath on her cheek. 

“Oh, Jerry, Jerry, I — I am rather tired. Don’t 
smother me, please ! ” 

She tried to laugh as she said it, but the attempt 
was a miserable failure. She was not aware of ho\y 


228 


A NEW NOTE. 


plainly her repugnance to his first attempt at a 
caress showed itself. Annesley, with his arms round 
her, looked into her face once more, as she uttered 
the faint, protesting words. His own face flushed, 
but he withdrew his arms quite gently. 

“ Smother you ! ” he exclaimed, as lightly as he 
could. “ Poor darling, of course not ! ” 

And as he said it, she found herself released 
completely. He rose and walked round to the 
opposite side of the table. And he had not kissed 
her — not once ! 

Victoria looked up at him where he stood — looked 
full into the kind face, which smiled with honest 
good-nature as it met her gaze. 

A big lump rose in her throat. His face 
became suddenly all blurred in the dimness that 
filled her eyes. She pushed back her chair violently, 
and in another second she was standing before 
him, close to him. She stretched out her hands 
impulsively, and caught a button of his coat. Her 
voice was low and shaking as she spoke. 

“ Oh, Jerry, you are a dear , and I know I shall — 
love you — awfully — some day ! ” 

The two last words were barely whispered. 
Annesley could have scarcely heard them. For as 
they were uttered Victoria raised her head, and, of 
her own free will, kissed him once with hot, quivering 
lips. She flushed scarlet as her mouth touched his 
face, and her hands pushed him from her immediately 
with all their force. 

Annesley’s eyes shone. Every pulse in his body 
leaped like mad at the touch of that kiss on his 
cheek. The throbbing in his ears deafened him for 
the moment He drew her to him again, without 


A NEW NOTE. 


229 


resistance from her this time, and kissed her more 
than once. Her lips turned deadly white under the 
passion of his kisses, but he noticed nothing, saw 
nothing, felt nothing, but the mad throbbing of his 
veins. 

They were the kisses he had dreamt of for years, 
and they were sweet — no wonder that they were 
sweet. 

But all the same they were not one half so sweet 
as the one small fleeting kiss which her lips had 
given him of their own sweet will. 

Victoria was very pale when the door opened and 
her father came in. He came in whistling the refrain 
of a popular song, and smiling blandly. 

“ Well, Jerry, my boy, Pve got my comforter. 
Capital comforter, too ! — No, you sha’n’t see it. If 
you do you’ll find fault with the pattern.” 

This was added to Victoria, as she ran up to him 
and cuddled her arm through his. 

Mr. Leathley chuckled. 

“ It's stripes,” he said, pinching her ear. “ You like 
stripes, don’t you ? — blue, and red, and black, I think. 
Now won’t that please your highness, hey ? Tell 
you what, Jerry, Dublin’s a capital place to get a 
comforter — a capital place, my dear fellow ! ” 

And then he walked away, and grinned at his 
own reflection in the looking-glass. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


“ VICTORIA,” Conway Keppel remarked languidly, 
in reply to a question which had just been put 
to him, “Victoria at the present moment is being 
interviewed.” 

The person to whom he imparted this information 
uttered a little snort, either signifying impatience 
or disapproval. 

“Ye-es,” pursued Mr. Keppel reflectively; “this 
is, let me see, well — I fancy something like the 
fifth or sixth interview since last July.” 

A second voice, a voice with brisk, acid tones, 
broke in here ruthlessly on the speaker’s smooth 
accents. 

“ I wish,” said the owner of the second voice, 
“ that they wouldn’t wear all the flesh off her 
bones amongst them. She is looking abominably 
delicate. I was watching her this morning, and 
she ate no breakfast.” 

“ My dear Aunt Doll, how could she ? How 
could any one eat breakfast, and at the same time 
make up answers for the coming questions — I mean 
the coming interviewer ? — besides the difficult calcu- 
lation as to which of one’s most fetching frocks 
one should select in which to fetch the wary one? 
Breakfast ! You wouldn’t eat any breakfast if a 
business-like woman, with a black note-book, was 
coming presently to ask you questions and take 


A NEW NOTE. 


231 


down your answers — and take down, in her mind’s 
eye, all the weak points in your careful toilette 
I assure you you wouldn’t.” 

“ Bah ! ” said the other quickly. “ The whole 
system is nauseating.” 

“ Which ? ” inquired Mr. Keppel coolly. “ The 
breakfast or the interview ? ” 

Miss Payne deigned no reply. Her silence was 
more eloquent — far more eloquent, in her case — than 
speech. 

“Hum!” pursued the first speaker. “Fame is 
the glory of life. What is Fame? Victoria is 
famous — quite, quite famous. There is no possible 
doubt about that. Did I tell you that some months 
ago Ada had the pleasure of hearing ‘ Sappho’s 
Song ’ at Brighton — L on a piano-organ ? Oh yes, 
a loud, relentless piano-organ, warranted to work 
away at the rate of ten miles an hour, and to 
play everything half a tone flat, and half a bar 
out of time. And now the man who plays the 
cornopean outside our house in Chester Square on 
rainy days, always on rainy days — query, why do 
men who play the cornopean always play it in 
the rain ? Ton my word, it would be an interesting 
study — say for the silly season : 4 Men who play 
the cornopean.’ However, this especial cornopeanist 
has now got ‘Sappho’s Song,’ with the semitones 
mostly left out, wedged in between ‘ Oh, Mr. 
Porter ’ and ‘ God bless the Prince of Wales ! ’ 
The effect is what young ladies would call 
weird. Very much so, when the rain gets into 
his whistle — I mean his cornopean. I mention 
all this because this is Fame. Fame! Think of 
that.” 


232 


A NEW NOTE. 


He spread out his hands and looked over at 
Miss Payne. Plainly the latter was pursuing a 
line of thought which she had no intention of 
revealing. Mr. Keppel took up his parable once 
more. 

“ The interview is the latest resource of civilisation. 
It also is Fame. Victoria and Fame are synony- 
mous ; therefore, Victoria must tell the dear, patient 
public, all agog for the news, whether she likes 
strawberry jam, or approves of your powdering 
your nose, or believes Beethoven and Wagner are 
entirely over-rated, and Thingumy Tolero, the last 
new composer, and her (supposed) deadly enemy, 
quite under-rated. While all the time the officer 
of the new inquisition will be looking her over 
carefully from her — her fringe-net to her shoes 
and stockings, and adding up what Mr. Mantalini 
has been pleased to call ‘ the demnition total.’ We 
live in an enlightened age. This is the charming 
device — one of the charming devices — of an en- 
lightened age. Ada — Ada’s an original little girl 
in her way — Ada declares it’s the Nemesis of 
humanity, for humanity’s cruelty to the brute 
creation. She says we thump and kick our oxen, 
and our asses, and our horses ; we pull open their 
mouths and count their teeth, and dig ’em in the 
ribs, and catch ’em by the nose, and clip ’em, and 
cut ’em, and mutilate them ; and then we send 
them to a hell upon earth (to them) in the shape 
of an exhibition or showyard, where every one 
else may go and do likewise to them, just that 
every one may say what fine cattle we keep. That’s 
Ada’s reading. ’Pon my soul, I’m inclined to — 
she’s not here, is she? No. Well, I’m inclined to 


A NEW NOTE. 


233 


agree with her. I always do agree with Ada — 
behind her back. Now, you see, our first-prize, 
best-selected showyard human animals are brought 
to the torturer, or, at least, the torturer brings 
himself or herself to them, and we have our teeth 
counted, and our virtues and our vices — beyond all 
things, our vices — to say nothing of our incomes, 
counted (in public). Yes, everything is counted 
carefully — even the hairs of our head are all 
numbered — by the modern interviewer.” 

“ Conway,” interrupted Miss Payne sharply, “ be 
good enough to refrain from open profanity, if you 
please, in my hearing.” 

“ Great goddess Fame ! ” pursued Mr. Keppel 
unabashed. “ It is well said thou art a lady. What 
will not a lady undergo in thy service ! Even being 
interviewed. There was a lull, Aunt Doll, in the 
onslaught after the first fond scamper last summer, 
when, I am given to understand, they were shoving 
one another off the doorstep at Rutland Gardens ; 
there was a lull, until the announcement of Victoria's 
engagement to Jerry Annesley. Then they began 
all over again. At least, the ‘ladies' journals' 
started with renewed zest. Engaged ! The word 
still has charms — for ladies' journals. P'our ladies' 
papers wrote and asked Jerry for his photograph. 
Jerry , fancy old Jerry! He told them (I have 

it from himself) to go and be da . Ten 

thousand pardons, Aunt Doll! It was rude and 
naughty — yes, you're quite right, it was ; but Jerry 
said it, not I. But, bless you, they were quite 

willing to go and be da , do what he wished, 

I mean — after they had got his photograph. Oh, 
they got it, by hook or by crook — crook probably; 


234 


A NEW NOTE. 


for, like that immortal child who takes such delight 
in Pears’ Soap, they wouldn’t be happy till they 
got it, and get it they did. I hope they’re happy 
now. I hope Jerry’s happy, too.” 

Miss Payne sighed. 

“ Whatever they are all doing,” she said angrily, 
“they’re killing the child amongst them. I shall 
be thankful when Jerry has got her safe and sound 
at Castle Connaught, away from them all.” 

Mr. Keppel shook his head impressively. 

“ Don’t you flatter yourself that ’ll stop ’em. By 
George ! they’ll be off like— like a pack o’ harriers 
after the ‘ newly-wedded pair/ as they will fondly 
call them.” 

“ Her little white face,” continued his auditor, if 
such a word can be fitly applied to one who was 
not listening to one word he said, “ drives me wild. 
Bother the Music and the Fame, and ” (with a weak 
descent into generalities) “ everything ! I wish Jerry 
would run away with her. I do, with all my 
heart.” 

Conway Keppel clasped his hands round his 
knee, and rocked himself slowly to and fro. 

“ Won’t do, Aunt Doll. She wouldn’t run away 
with him — with the trousseau only half finished. 
Couldn’t do such a thing. You take my word for 
it, Aunt Doll, it’s the trousseau’s at the bottom of 
the mischief. Music — even interviewers— are not in 
it with the trousseau. Oh, that trousseau ! It’s 
wearing at the price. Don’t glare at me, Aunt 
Doll, I am not attempting a pun. It’s much too 
serious. You see, I know all about it. I used to 
think Ada’d never live through her trousseau. I 
remember telling her, in a voice broken with 


A NEW NOTE. 


235 


emotion, as the heroes speak in ladies’ novels, that 
I looked forward on our wedding-day to conveying 
her mortal remains, and nothing more, away with 
me. I remonstated, I implored, I reasoned. No use. 
Ada said it was ‘ mamma,’ and mamma said ‘ Of 
course dear Ada was devoted to her little frocks and 
things.’ I don’t know whether you saw the little 
frocks and things, but I imagine that they would 
have furnished forth the female population of a — 
say the Scilly Isles — and had a few odds and ends 
over for poor curates’ families. Oh, I know what 
it is to marry a trousseau ! Jerry will know what 
it is before he’s done with it. He’ll know what it 
is to get into a long tunnel of — er — petticoats, and 
get out at the other end. And one is quite 
helpless. I remember how, in the innocent ardour 
of youth, I said I'd get Ada — er — petticoats, for 
instance, after we were married, that indeed in very 
truth I would be quite willing to buy her a pair 
of boots, or two pairs of boots — I did indeed. I 
said I should be quite willing to clothe my wife 
I even went farther, and said I’d give her a fair 
share at Madame White’s, or Madame Black’s, or 
Green’s, or any other of those infernal humbugs in 
Bond Street or Regent Street, if she liked. But 
no, she didn’t like it at all, then ; though I’m 
bound to say I’ve once or twice regretted that offer 
since. Oh no. I had to marry the trousseau, and so 
will Jerry. Why — hullo ! here’s the victim herself.” 

Victoria came across the room to Aunt Doll. 
She looked white and fragile enough to justify 
Aunt Doll’s strictures upon her looks, and her face 
was haggard and very tired about the eyes. 

“Well,” exclaimed Mr. Keppel, standing up. “So 


236 


A NEW NOTE. 


you have escaped from the snare of the fowler?” 

Victoria, who held an open letter in her hand, 
smiled very faintly. It was evident she was not 
going to talk about herself. Perhaps because she 
had been talking almost exclusively about herself 
for nearly an hour. 

“ I am afraid,” she said, sitting down beside Aunt 
Doll on the settee, “that Gertrude will be rather 
disappointed. This *’ — she shook the open letter — 
“is rather a squencher. You see” — turning to 
Miss Payne — “it’s this thing at the Institute. We 
thought we’d try skirt-dancing as a novelty. IPs 
so hard to get the men to wake up to an interest 
in the Institute. So I said I’d ask Cora Willoughby 
to come down and dance for us.” 

“Sir John’s daughter?” inquired the elder lady 
at this point. 

Victoria nodded. 

“Yes. And first she said she’d be delighted; but 
now, if you please, she declares she won’t dance 
unless we can manage a special limelight-and 
mirrors sort of arrangement on the stage — I mean 
the platform — for a rainbow effect, or something. 
And she wants to bring down a Miss Somebody- 
Something too, a dancer whom I’ve never heard 
of, who coaches her, and who has something to do 
in the rainbow effect. I’m sure I don’t understand. 

She really thinks Oh, Ada, is that you?” — 

as Mrs. Conway Keppel walked in. “ She really 
thinks ” 

“ A good many shakes of herself,” Mr. Keppel 
interpolated, putting up his eye-glass at tne same 
time, and staring critically at his wife. 

It’s too perfectly absurd of her ! ” cried Victoria. 


A NEW NOTE. 


237 


“As to the dancing woman, Gertrude would never 
stand the dancing woman in the house. What a 
bother it is ! Now isn’t Cora too absurd, Aunt Doll ? ” 

Miss Payne coughed drily. 

“ Pray don’t ask me, my dear. In my day young 
women of good family and decent reputation were 
not in the habit of kicking up their heels on public 
platforms for the entertainment of every Tom, 
Dick, and Harry who should choose to pay a 
shilling to see them do it. In my day persons 
from — er ” 

“ The ‘ ’alls/ ” Mr. Keppel interpolated again. 

Miss Payne frowned. 

" Suck persons,” she concluded sharply, “ were 
not the chosen associates of young ladies, nor the 
guests in respectable country houses.” 

Conway Keppel smiled delightedly. 

“ Oh, the ‘ ’alls,’ ” he said mischievously, “ aren’t 
bad. As a rule, you’d find ’em quite harmless. We 
had one of ’em at the Cameron-Curtises. She 
came down to breakfast in a tea-gown I remember 
and her sleeves were only down to her elbows ; 
her face was rather heavily powdered, for the 
morning ; but she really was as harmless as — the wife 
of a bishop. She didn’t even smoke, Aunt Doll ! ” 

Miss Payne didn’t speak. Her lips were tightly 
compressed. Conway Keppel smiled again. 

“Now, you know,” he continued blandly, “Cora 
Willoughby won’t do without her little smoke. 
She takes it in the form of those little harmless 
Brilliantines, and she must have ’em, too, put in her 
room for her wherever she stays. She can pull 
through a couple of them at a time. She’s under 
the impression, poor little dear, like so many of them, 


238 


A NEW NOTE. 


that she can smoke. She can’t smoke. You give 
her half a quarter of an ounce of cut Cavendish, 
in a little briar pipe, and in ten minutes she couldn’t 
tell you which end of her was uppermost. As to 
six whiffs of a fairly reasonable cigar, it would blow 
her head off. However, be sure you get the 
Brilliantines for her. She gets them everywhere.” 

“ She wouldn’t get them in my house,” said the 
tall old lady on the settee, jerking her knitting- 
needles viciously. 

She knitted quantities of scarlet woollen kneecaps 
and garters for old women, and the long, scarlet 
garter upon which she was engaged at present lay 
coiled in and out on her lap like a fiery serpent. 

“ Humph ! ” with a grim smile. “ She’d get a right 
good whipping ; that’s what she’d get, if she were 
my daughter.” 

“ Oh, I say,” exclaimed Conway, dropping his 
eyeglass in his amusement, “ I’d give a ten-pound 
note to see Aunt Doll spanking Cora ! You wouldn’t 
have the heart to do it, Aunt Doll, after one look 
from Cora’s grey eyes.” 

A little shadow of a shade swept over Ada 
Keppel’s fair young face. She looked, indeed, very 
young and fair. It was almost impossible, looking 
at her, to realise that she had been married more 
than two years, and was the mother of a remarkably 
fine baby. 

“ Her eyes/’ continued Conway, “ are simply in- 
describable. Sometimes they’re positively green, you 
know. And can’t she play the very devil with them 
just ! Ada, don’t you think Cora Willoughby’s eyes 
are extraordinary, extraordinarily fascinating? Eh, 
what? You do? Yes, I should think so. All 


A NEW NOTE. 


239 


the same, she’s a conceited little donkey. Moreover, 
besides the delusion about smoking, she’s under the 
impression that she can dance. Well, she can’t, 
candidly. But she manages her mise en scene so 
consummately that she deceives a good many people 
into thinking that, if she wanted to, she could get 
her living by it at the ‘ Empire.’ Limelight and 
mirrors ! Absurd ! Just like her cheek ! Heigh-ho ! 
That sort of woman is all very well, now and then — 
like ortolans — but they’re altogether quite too — too 
highly flavoured for human nature’s daily food.” 

“Well, but what’s to be done?” asked Victoria, 
with a wearied, worried note in her voice. 

“Done!” echoed Conway. “Nothing. Ten 
chances to one, if that little minx discovers you 
can do without her, and that you mean to do 
without her, she’ll write you two dozen gushing 
lines, all round capitals and notes of admiration 
to say that her only pleasure in life at present 
will be to dance a skirt dance or a shawl dance 
or to kick up her heels, as Aunt Doll incisively 
puts it, for the dear rustics in Eastaston village. 
Oh, my dear Victoria, you ‘let her come to,’ as 
my old nurse used to say, long ago.” 

There was, indeed, no other course open. 

Nevertheless, Mr. Keppel’s predictions seemed for 
once at fault. Perhaps Miss Cora Willoughby was 
past “coming to,” or perversely bent upon not 
“ coming to.” Anyhow, she didn’t come to Eastaston, 
and Mrs. Edmund Leathley was unfeignedly vexed, 
and Victoria was, privately, quite indifferent; and, 
failing skirt-dancing, the amusement of the rustic 
remained for a time undecided as to what form it 
would take. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


BUT the stars in their courses fought for Mrs. Edmund 
Leathley. Not the stars of the “ Halls.” Oh no ! 
But other stars, and one in especial, of purest light 
and finest magnitude. 

Victoria, coming down to breakfast a few days 
later, found her sister-in-law beaming forth an arrowy 
smile on all assembled, from behind the silver urn. 

She cried out in an unwonted fever of excitement 
when Victoria appeared. 

“ My dear Victoria, such a delightful thing has 
happened, you can’t think ! ” 

Victoria, in the sight of one person present, at any 
rate, looked far from equal to thinking of much. 

“Yes,” continued Mrs. Edmund Leathley. “I don’t 
know when I was so pleased at anything. And I 
mean to let Cora Willoughby know what she has 
missed. She has been dying to meet Loevio, and 
now she could have met him here — could have stayed 
in the house with him — if she had chosen to behave 
like a lady. Your coffee, Victoria?” 

Victoria glanced up. She had grown several 
shades paler, if that were possible. 

“Thanks,” she said, almost faintly, drawing the 
coffee-cup to her. “ What — what do you mean, 
Gertrude ?” 

“ I mean this,” returned the latter, delightedly 
and excitedly. “ Mr. Loevio ” (the emphasis was 

240 


A NEW NOTE. 


241 


nearly ecstatic) “ has written me such a charming 
letter ! It's here somewhere.” She rustled through the 
bundle of letters that lay on the table-cloth beside 
her. “What? No? Dear me, I can’t find it now. 
Well, never mind, he has offered — offered , Victoria ! — 
to come and sing two songs for me at the Institute. 
He says he is due at Sandringham — yes, at 
Sandringham — on the seventeenth, and he could give 
us the two days following. He says he fancied I 
might like it So modest of him to put it in that 
way ! And he was so delicate in putting it, too, 
that of course he would sing merely for his own 
pleasure — quite — er — unprofessionally. It is too 
delightful. I shall draw up a new programme at 
once. Fancy a man like that taking so much trouble ! 
The way in which he speaks in his letter (oh, I 
wish I had it here!) about his intense interest in 
the welfare of Art, and the progress of Art among 
the classes not so well placed as ourselves, is quite 
touching — quite poetical ! Cora Willoughby will 
grind her teeth with rage. Now, Victoria, between 
your violin solos and Loevio’s songs, the Institute 
will become famous.” 

Victoria did not speak. 

Her brother Hugh called out to her from the side- 
board, as his sister-in-law’s rapturous accents ceased. 

“ Hi, Victoria, what are you going to have in the 
way of breakfast? Kidney and bacon, old girl, or 
cold veal pie? Or do you want to stick to boiled 
eggs, or what ? Here, shout out quick, like a good girl.” 

Victoria started, and looked dazed. 

“ Cold veal kidney ! ” she exclaimed lucidly. “ Yes, 
no — anything you like ! At least, I think I’m going 
to have an egg and bread-and-butter, or toast.” 

16 


242 


A NEW NOTE. 


“ Cold veal kidney ! ” roared Hugh. “ Oh, I say ! 
Cold veal kidney ! Here, you people, would any 
one get Miss Victoria Leathley some cold veal 
kidney ? ” 

He capered round and round with a very sub- 
stantial plateful of cold veal pie for his own 
consumption. Victoria got an egg, and a scrap of 
dry toast. 

When she left the breakfast-room, a little later, 
the top of the egg had been chipped off, and the 
dry toast was broken into little pieces on her plate. 

She thought she would never get away — never 
hear the last of her sister-in-law’s raptures. But 
in the end she did manage to escape. 

Alone in her dear turret-room she could give way 
to the distraction which overwhelmed her. 

“ Coming here ! ” she murmured to herself. “ Oh, 
my God, why — why does he come here? Can’t he 
leave me in peace? It is so cruel to pursue me 
when he knows that I am not free. I wish I had 
never seen him. I really don't like him now, because, 
even if he does care, he has no right to show it, 
when I — when Jerry — he has no earthly right. It’s 
not gentlemanly either. Only ” — her face, even in 
solitude, flushed rosy red — “ I suppose it is hard on 
him, too. And he knows that I know, and — that I 
— care. I — I am such a fool ! I know what I will 
do. I will go away before this wretched concert. 
I don’t care what any of them may think. I shall 
go up to town, or perhaps to Paris, to the St. Johns. 
They have asked me. I will tell Gertrude — to- 
morrow, yes, to-morrow.” 

The morrow came, but Victoria did not tell 
Gertrude, 


A NEW NOTE. 


243 


One, two, three days, a week, slipped by, and 
still Victoria did not tell Gertrude. In excuse she 
told herself that no proper opportunity had occurred 
— that she could not speak before a whole gang of 
people ; but that she would speak. 

All the same, she allowed her name to be printed 
upon the newly glorified programme for two or 
three violin pieces. And the great event drew nearer 
and nearer, and the appropriate moment seemed 
more and more difficult to discover. 

“ I will speak,” said Victoria to herself. “ I will 
speak, this morning” 

It was the last attempt to deceive herself into a 
belief in her own sincerity. 

She followed her sister-in-law to her boudoir, 
where she found her immersed in some intricate 
accounts of the housekeeper's, which wouldn't come 
out right do what she would. The spring morning 
was nearly sultry, and as nobody was ever 
able to persuade Mrs. Edmund Leathley to open 
the windows properly in her boudoir, she was at the 
moment, between the heat and the housekeeper’s 
figures, both tired and cross. 

Victoria had chosen an unpropitious moment. 
But, then, why had Victoria dallied ? 

“ Gertrude ! ” 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley started violently at the 
sound of her name from Victoria’s lips. 

She looked up from the rows of refractory figures. 

“ Victoria,” she exclaimed sharply, “how you do 
disturb one, creeping in like that ! Well, what do 
you want now ? ” 

She sighed with exaggerated resignation. Like 
Mrs. Squeers, it gratified her to imagine that she 


244 


A NEW NOTE. 


was “ more than a mother to them all,” and she 
played the part accordingly. 

“ Well, Victoria? ” 

“ Gertrude, look here, I — I — find I can't possibly — 
I mean I shall — I must go up to town.” 

“ Up to town ! ” reiterated her sister-in-law. “ Why 
what on earth do you want to go to town for ? 
Anyhow, you can’t possibly go up till after the 
concert.” 

“ That’s just it,” said Victoria, with a gulp, and one 
last desperate effort. “ I can’t stay for the concert. 
I — I have most important business in London ; and, 
besides, I fancy I ought to run over to Paris and 
see Monsieur S about ” 

“ Paris ! ” Mrs. Edmund Leathley nearly screamed. 
14 Paris ! Victoria, you really try one’s patience. Now 
listen, there’s a dear girl, to reason. I am sure the 
business can wait. Besides, it must wait, for think 
what a marked discourtesy — a marked discourtesy, 
Victoria, you would show Mr. Loevio, by marching 
out of the house just as he comes. Remember his 
part in your opera. Oh, you can’t, positively ! 
Remember, too, the sort of construction that will 
be put upon your throwing over our poor, dear 
people at the last moment — our dear people 
at Eastaston. Great celebrities should be doubly 
careful not to look as if they gave themselves 
airs. My dear, your father would be dreadfully 
hurt, I know, if you treated his people, or his guest 
discourteously.” 

Victoria fixed her cold, dark, weary eyes on her 
sister-in-law’s face. Strange that the latter, looking 
up into those eyes, should have read no message in 
them. Then Victoria laughed. 


A NEW NOTE. 


245 


“Very well, Gertrude, let us not be discourteous, 
by all means. I should never dream of being dis- 
courteous to a great singer. That is a luxury one 
reserves to oneself for little people.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” said Mrs. Edmund 
Leathley crossly. 

This was perfectly true. No shadowy remem- 
brance even dimmed the mirror of her memory as 
to any circumstance in which a part she had 
played might give colour or meaning to the other’s 
words. 

“ I wish you wouldn’t talk in enigmas,” she 
continued, “ and that you wouldn’t come inter- 
rupting me with nonsense. I do declare I’m worried 
to death — what with one thing or another — trying 
to please you all ! And there’s Trottie complaining 
of her throat, and Harris says she had that horrid 
croupy cough I dread so much last night. Dear 
Victoria, I wish you’d run up and take a look at 
her. She’s not going to be bad, I hope, but she’s 
feeling rather wretched, poor little mite! You 
always manage to put her in a good humour.” 

Victoria laid down her arms. 

It was no use, she told herself, as she went up- 
stairs to the nursery to see her little niece. She 
had done her part — her part. 

She repeated this to herself many times, as she 
sat beside Trottie’s cot, and made conversation for 
that somewhat exigeante little person, who was not 
very ill, but ill enough to be fretful and feverish, 
and to need, like bigger persons, to be amused. 

“ It’s not my fault,” she repeated again to herself, 
when she was alone once more, “and I will keep 
him away from me. He won’t dare, if I show him 


246 


A NEW NOTE. 


I won’t stand it. And” — a little faint, pallid 
smile broke over her face — “ it will be nice just to 
see him again.” 

Her eye fell upon something lying on the writing- 
table in her music-room. It was a programme of 
the forthcoming entertainment. Victoria saw only 
the words “ Mr. Louis Loevio.” 

“ Louis ! ” She murmured the syllables very 
softly. 

She went to one of her book-cases presently, 
and searched through the shelves. Very soon she 
found the object of her search — “Shirley” — one of 
her few favourite novels. 

Taking the book down, she laid it on the table 
and turned over the pages rapidly, going backwards 
and forwards till she came to the following 
passage : — 

“ Louis, an easy, liquid name, not soon for- 
gotten.” 

She read the words more than once. “ An easy 
liquid name,” she murmured once more, with a 
little absent smile. “ Louis ! ” 

Her eyes — such cold little eyes — grew soft and 
larger as they grew lustrous. She sat quite still, 
a little glow of colour in her face, her mouth and 
her eyes smiling. She gazed at the name printed 
on the programme again, and at the open pages 
of Charlotte Bronte’s incomparable story, and she 
trembled. But presently the reaction came. She 
pushed the programme and the book away from 
her. Her face turned pale, and her mouth set 
itself into hard, nearly straight, lines. 

“ Oh, you idiot ! ” she said to herself. Oh, you 
weak fool ! Getting maudlin over a name ! ” 


A NEW NOTE. 


247 


She opened her blotter, and drew a sheet of 
blank MS. music-paper in front of her. 

No use! Her hands shook, and her brain reeled. 
Work ! She could not work. The discord of her 
own emotions shut out the harmonies with which 
her brain had to do. Work ! A sneer curled her 
lips. Work ! When only one idea, only one 
thought, would resolve itself before her view. 

She was a great composer. They said she had 
done wonders ; they were all saying it. She had 
touched, or nearly touched, the heights in an Art 
which hitherto has jealously shut out women from 
its inner sanctuary ; her hand had drawn aside 
the curtain that has been hung so high that woman’s 
stature has not yet apparently found itself able to 
reach forth unto it. This one girl of eight-and- 
twenty years had lifted up her hand and dared, 
and achieved, and triumphed. Triumphed openly ; 
a triumph, not for herself alone, but for her sex. 

But of what use was it ? Of what use ? She was 
a woman, after all — only a woman, like other women, 
like the one woman of imperishable fame to whose 
glory her hand had added one more radiant beam. 
The destiny of her womanhood had come to her 
as it comes to the meanest, and the weakest, and 
the worst — as it had come to the daughter of 
Greece, whose story she had told once more, whose 
story of a woman’s love — only a woman’s love — has 
lived through the long-spent ages, the ages wherein 
have perished almost every fragment of the woman’s 
great splendour of intellect and brain. 

So it is, perhaps always, perhaps unchangeable, 
a law immovable, perhaps immutable, that in 
woman’s history the heart shall dominate the head j 


248 


A NEW NOTE. 


Victoria was in love. 

That is the plain, unvarnished fact, divested of 
all hyperbole. She was in love. A commonplace 
ending to a far from commonplace career — merely 
to be in love! 

And she was not in love happily. It humiliated 
her, this love ; it ran aground against a whole 
array of strong, womanly prejudices. She knew 
its value, or she thought she did, because she also 
knew herself, or she thought she did also. She 
knew, or believed, that it was, or would be, evanes- 
cent — sooner or later. But of late it was being 
forced home upon her that this love, in being 
destroyed, might destroy more than itself alone ; of 
late she had thought this, and many other strange 
thoughts too, for there is no such breeder of strange 
thoughts as Love. 

Amor vincit omnia. Truly, Love conquers all 
things. Faith may remove mountains, but Love 
will subdue a universe. Volumes have been written 
about this wondrous thing which life gives to men 
and women. Take away Love from the literature 
of mankind, and wherewithal is left? 

No faith, no creed, no religion, can number among 
its votaries the men and women of the whole world 
— past, present, and — shall it not be? — to come. 
Only Love can do that. And Love does it daily, 
adding daily fresh numbers to his countless ranks. 

All shall drag at his chariot wheels, be they 
who they may — saints or heroes, gods or goddesses 
queens or emperors. 

Why, then, should one English girl imagine she 
could escape — even though she be a child of the New 
Age, and have formulated a new doctrine of Life ? 


A NEW NOTE. 


249 


How splendid it is to be a child of the New 
Age — to formulate a new doctrine of Life ! How 
splendid it is — is it not? — to live up — or down — to 
your New Doctrine! 

The children of this generation believe that they 
are wiser than all who have gone before them. 

The belief is one which those who have gone 
before have, in their turn, been not unwilling to 
assume also. 

The children of this generation shall have, at 
all events, the benefit of the doubt. 

But if they are wiser than their forbears, they 
are not wiser than Love. 

Love laughs in their sapient faces ; laughs long 
and loudly. 

They are the strong — armed ; but he is stronger 
than they are, and when he comes he conquers — 
always. 

Victoria had flouted Love. But Love had come 
to her and — conquered. And now Love was having 
his revenge — his revenge for every humorous 
cynicism, every polished sneer, every intellectual 
gibe at his supremacy. He had come for his 
revenge, and all her forces went down before his 
raking fusillade. 

She was there, weak, defenceless, foolish, the 
most pitiable creature imaginable — a woman in love. 
A woman in love, in love against her will, against 
her reason, against her desire, in spite of herself! 

She thought of it all as she sat there. She 
thought till she was tired of thinking. She thought 
of Annesley, and his goodness, and his love. She 
let her mind dwell on his truth, and his constancy, 
and his single-mindedness, because she wanted to 


A NEW NOTE. 


2 $6 

be true, and to be constant, and she knew that 
she could not trust herself. A profound mistrust 
of herself grasped her. She was so weak ! Even 
the sound of one name unnerved her ; even the 
thought of seeing him, this man whom she despised 
— and loved — agitated her unspeakably. 

What would it be when he was here — here beside 
her, with the power of his presence added to the 
power of his love? It was a question she did not 
dare ask herself It would have been better if 
she had. 

The tendency to evasion in a woman’s mind is 
one of its most pronounced and inherent weaknesses, 
Victoria had a fine mind — acute, cultured, strenuous ; 
the mind, not indeed of the thinker or scientist 
but of the artist — that is, if one will deny that 
the artist, the true artist — above all, the creative 
artist — has qualities of mind essential to thought 
and science. But it was a woman’s mind, — a woman, 
too, of intensely feminine calibre (“ femininity ” it 
has been well called) — and the weakness of evasion 
was there. 

She believed now that she could evade the 
power of this love which consumed her, by evading 
the thought of its existence. 

She stood up from her writing-table, and went 
over to the open window. She leaned her forehead 
forward to the air which blew in. For the moment 
she was persuaded that the numbness of feeling 
which had succeeded her emotion was the repose 
of a heart and will at peace, and self-controlled. 

She put up her hand, her left hand, to push 
back the soft lace curtains, and a flash of sunlight 
played on the sapphires and diamonds of the ring 


A NEW NOTE. 251 

which bound her to Annesley till a simpler circlet 
should bind her more strongly and closely still. 

Her eyes caught the flash of the sunlight as it 
radiated like living fire in the cut brilliancy of the 
precious stones. 

She gazed at the shimmering, glittering circlet 
fixedly. It represented to her a great deal. To 
Annesley how much more ! Then, as if its irides- 
cent loveliness dazzled, and blinded, and hurt her, she 
hid her hand away down at her side. 

But the fascination of the ring seemed to draw 
it, in another moment, into view again. Perhaps 
reflected in the jewels was some forecast of the 
future, that they arrested her gaze whether she 
would or no. 

Victoria began pulling off her ring — Annesley’s 
ring, that which the society interviewer would pre- 
sently describe in two lines all to itself as a “ superb 
hoop of sapphires and diamonds of the purest water, 
and finest colour and brilliancy, very simple and 
charming, an ideal engagement ring.” Victoria 
began slipping it up and down on her finger. 

Presently it slipped off altogether, and slipped 
out of her fingers, and lay, a small, now darkened, 
object on the carpet. 

For a long time she did not heed it. 

Her eyes were watching some little clouds — white, 
innocent, babylike clouds — floating in the clear blue 
April sky. All at once a shower began coming 
up from the west. Angry, iron-grey clouds, elderly, 
storm-tossed, bitter clouds came up, too, and swept 
into darkness and cold rain the pretty white 
cloudlets sailing away so gaily a few minutes 
before in their deceptive heaven of blue. 


252 


A NEW NOTE. 


Victoria felt the spatter of a cold douche of 
rain in her face. She turned from the window, 
hesitated, looked onwards into the room, then 
outward once more, into the sky without. 

Without were darker clouds, more rain, colder, 
sharper, heavier rain. 

She stooped and picked up her ring, turned it 
round, and dusted it carefully (though there was no 
dust on it) with her pocket handkerchief. Then 
she put it on firmly, and her lips closed firmly, 
and her eyes shone steadily once more. 

That was done. It was well. She breathed 
more freely. Did she ? Well, perhaps more quickly. 

She sat down at the writing-table again, and 
took up her pen. This time she dotted down a 
bar of notes. Her left hand, with its troth-ring, lay 
spread out, keeping down the corner of the music- 
paper firmly, steadily. Steadily ? Oh yes, very 
steadily, for the diamonds were quivering and 
sparkling oddly. Very steadily, though now she 
was not dotting down any more notes. 

She was sitting very still, and her face was 
white and set. Heart and soul she was praying, 
a dumb, voiceless prayer ; yet, dumb and voiceless, 
such a prayer as she never in her life prayed 
before. But the heavens were as brass, or seemed 
so, and her prayers returned empty into her own 
bosom. The effort, even to pray, was too much. 
Even to pray ! It is not easy to pray — not by 
any means. Perhaps if it were, it would be robbed 
of its best benefits. Victoria’s strong prayer died, 
slain by that which was stronger still. 

The realisation of this forced her down upon her 
knees. It seemed to her that the voice of her petition 


A NEW NOTE. 


253 


would indeed be fuller, would indeed be worthier of 
response, were it sent forth from the attitude in 
which the human creature has instinctively become 
conscious that it may with fitness approach the 
Divine Presence. 

But it was no use. 

Attitude won’t do. Attitude, of the outward body 
of flesh, is nothing — nothing — unless it but reflect 
the inward spirit of the heart and soul. 

There was a dead, blank pause. 

Victoria, kneeling there, was conscious neither of 
sound nor motion. 

But all at once, without a second of warning, the 
rainstorm within burst forth. 

Victoria, on her knees still, flung up her head, as 
if she cast off all restraint. Her face flushed, her 
bosom heaved ; she did not once look at the pure 
brilliant ring. 

“ I love him ! ” she whispered hotly to her own 
heart. “ Oh, I do, I do, I do ! Louis, Louis, Louis ! ’ * 

Then her hands went up to her face, and down 
came the rain ; the rain of tears — blinding, drenching 
rain of tears. 

“ Tears, idle tears !” Ah, well said 1 

A woman in love ! 

Quite commonplace. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


LOEVIO came. Loevio, the splendid. Loevio, smiling, 
prosperous, courtly, as befitted one, and was but 
natural in one, who had just come from Sandringham. 

Nevertheless, Loevio showed good breeding, or a 
reflex of the same, caught on the burnished surface 
of his own adaptability. Loevio had no boast to 
make of his own prowess. On the contrary, he 
seemed to strip himself of all the trappings of 
success, and to be once more here at Eastaston, just 
the Loevio which he was when he had paid his first 
visit three years ago. Such was his attitude — 
an admirable one. But the attitude of others, 
of those surrounding him, had slipped away — 
very much indeed, slipped away — from its original 
bearings. 

That is the way of the world. It is the fate of 
its attitudes to slip and slide with the slippings and 
slidings of Time and Circumstance. 

Loevio, who had fought with Time and Circum- 
stance, had assuredly come off victor. Loevio 

was shrewder than Mrs. Edmund Leathley, who 
bowed to Time and Circumstance, and hastened to 
propitiate both with lavish gifts and offerings. 
Loevio held himself, so to speak, erect, imperium 
in impeno , an empire within an empire. Mrs. 
Edmund Leathley stooped, and gave herself away 
horribly, grotesquely, it seemed to her sister-in-law 
254 


A NEW NOTE. 


255 


when her sister-in-law’s cold, scornful, weary eyes 
rested upon her, and her memory, which was ad- 
mirable, recalled bygone scenes. 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley had neither eyes nor ears, 
neither sense nor hearing, for any one but Loevio now. 

Loevio the great, the splendid, had come to her 
rescue ; he had, of his own free will, glorified the 
darling of her heart. Could anything be too good 
for him ? Apparently, nothing. 

Loevio accepted everything, all smiles ; even Mrs. 
Edmund Leathley’s untiring attentions. He had 
come to take that which he desired, and meant 
to have ; for with Louis Loevio to desire was to 
have, sooner or later, and Mrs. Edmund Leathley’s 
attentions were no more unbearable than the buzzing 
of a busy bluebottle fly. 

Perhaps it was as well that Mrs. Edmund Leathley, 
by the law of nature, was kept in ignorance of 
Loevio’s private denomination of herself. Possibly 
even her present attitude, so delightfully conformed 
to that of the world and Society, especially Society 
— in capital letters — and starting from Sandringham, 
— even this attitude might have witnessed another 
slipping and sliding, had its owner become aware of 
Loevio’s innermost thoughts. Even an attitude so 
comprehensive as Mrs. Edmund Leathley’s would 
hardly survive hearing its owner denominated “ A 
damned old piece of propriety.” 

Hardly, indeed. 

Loevio was constantly asking himself “ Why that 
damned old piece of propriety could not give him 
a minute to himself?” 

That is, a minute, or many minutes, to himself 
and Victoria. 


256 


A NEW NOTE. 


To him, at Eastaston Manor every one, save 
Victoria only, was a vaporous shadow. She alone was 
real, concrete, absolute. On his arrival, he glowed 
with delight. She was so cold, so indifferent. She 
was putting herself far away from him so sedulously, 
so carefully. 

Loevio was enchanted. 

He read her like a book ; like a child’s one-syllable 
story-book — Victoria, who was a great artist ! 

Loevio spread himself with pride and love — love 
truly ; there was no doubt about that. That was 
real, at all events. 

“ Little darling ! ” he said to himself, pushing up 
his magnificent hair to a still more effective wave of 
arrangement. “ Little darling ! trying to run away 
from me ! We will change all that, Loevio, my boy. 
That country bumpkin in Ireland may stick in his 
own Irish bogs. ,, 

It pleased Mr. Loevio to think of his rival as “a 
country bumpkin.” No doubt it was pre-eminently 

gratifying to the son of a , well, of a nobody in 

particular, to feel that he could look upon Fitz- 
Gerald Annesley, an Annesley of Castle Connaught, 
as a country bumpkin. 

“ Ancestors ! ” grinned Loevio. " Ancestors ! Dam- 
nation humbugs — whole boiling of 'em ! Much good 
his ancestors 'll do him now ! ” 

Well, possibly Annesley’s ancestors would do 
him more good than the great Loevio could 
imagine. 

But if a man is born stone blind he cannot be 
blamed if the goodness and beauty of the light are 
sealed to him. 

Loevio arrived in high hope. But when he saw 


A NEW NOTE. 


257 


Victoria, his height of hope increased until he 
became almost giddy. 

Victoria was in the drawing-room to greet 
him when he entered it on the first evening of 
this his second visit to Eastaston. Victoria was 
there. 

So much had her effort to do right amounted to ! 

Loevio came in just two minutes before dinner 
was announced ; as once before he had come into 
that room. 

But his coming now was the cynosure of all eyes, 
the admired of all eyes, save one pair only — a keen, 
faded pair. Nevertheless, even those eyes could not 
but admit that he bore himself gracefully through a 
trying ordeal — one, indeed, of the most trying of 
ordeals — that of flattery and admiration. 

One other pair of eyes — dark eyes, in which 
coldness and passion strove together for the mastery 
— grew dim as they met his glance. His glance^ 
travelling rapidly over the room and its inhabitants^ 
had come to a dead halt at a small, slight figure, 
and a face as white as its owner’s soft silk frock. 

Loevio took six strides, and stood in front of 
Victoria. He smiled with his handsome blue eyes 
down into her little dark ones ; and they winced — 
he saw them wince — under the gaze of his. 

She stretched out her hand mechanically, and he 
held it in his for just the time which the laws of 
Society demanded — no more, no less. 

Loevio was very well trained by this time; he 
had learned everything — even the latest fashion in 
shaking hands. He bent his head ever so slightly 
towards her. 

“ How do you do, Miss Leathley ? What perfect 

l 7 


258 


A NEW NOTE. 


weather we are having ! It is midsummer, and yet 
only April. But the prophets tell us we shall pay 
for it by-and-by.” 

No more. He turned before Victoria could speak, 
to greet with a like soft commonplace some one 
else to whom a greeting was necessary. 

Victoria, her heart beating in her throat, shrank 
back again into the shade of the curtain in the 
dark corner, where she had ensconced herself in a 
wild desire to hide. 

But Loevio, even after dinner, did not go near 
her again that evening. 

He gave himself up, body and mind if not heart 
and soul, to Mrs. Edmund Leathley. 

He never approached Victoria, never addressed 
her ; but once or twice he looked at her — looked full 
into her eyes ; and the look was enough, quite 
enough, for her and — for him. 


CHAPTER XXV, 


It was over. 

That is to say, the concert was over. And 
Victoria’s violin pieces, which in truth she had 
played blindly, were over ; and Loevio’s songs, 
which took the world by storm, always and every- 
where, were over also ; and his hours at Eastaston 
were nearly over. And yet Loevio’s opportunity had 
not come. 

He had seen Victoria, to be sure. He had spoken 
to her, now and then, but always in the presence 
of others. 

To see the woman you madly love, to speak to 
her in public, is better than not to see her, or to 
speak to her at all ; but that is the best that can 
be said for it. 

Nevertheless, Loevio’s heart still beat high with hope. 

As to Victoria — Victoria told herself that she 
thanked God that it was all so nearly over ; that 
she thanked God she had escaped — that only a few 
hours now were left wherein to fear anything from 
his presence. 

She thanked God that it was so. And yet her 
heart stood still as she remembered how few, how 
very few, those hours were after all, and that he 
had made no effort to be alone with her. 

As she counted the hours still left, at breakfast 
that morning, she felt the food choke her, 

259 


26 o 


A NEW NOTE. 


Loevio, on the contrary, seemed to find no 
difficulty with his food. 

Loevio, indeed, was quite able to satisfy an appetite 
which was in consonance with the girth of — his 
waist. 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley regarded Loevio with 
increasing approval. His well-ordered appetite for 
breakfast completely won her approbation. Her 
clear views were very dogmatic upon the benefits 
to be derived from eating a hearty breakfast. 

Loevio was only too happy to eat a hearty 
breakfast at any time, but especially happy at a time 
like this, when he got such a breakfast as this 
without paying for it. No wonder Loevio went 
steadily through his breakfast — steadily and con- 
scientiously ! No wonder Mrs. Edmund Leathley 
beamed upon him ! 

Loevio, smiling back at her with charming 
deference, wondered how many more smiles would 
be needed. His plan of action was by this time 
pretty definitely marked out. It caused him to 
feel a quiver of intense amusement, the thought 
that by-and-by he was going to lead Mrs. Edmund 
Leathley captive to the doing of the one deed 
which above all others she would have abhorred, 
did she know it. But then she would not know 
it. That was the part which was excruciatingly 
funny — to Loevio. 

He lingered with her after breakfast. The others 
disappeared, and Victoria disappeared — was one of 
the first to disappear. 

Loevio, alone with his excellent hostess, was 
surprised, so surprised, when he found how rapidly 
time was passing. 


A NEW NOTE. 


26l 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley, when his surprise was 
conveyed to her, was more flattered than ever. 

Now was Loevio’s opportunity. 

“Time is flying,” he said gravely. “Can you 
tell me if Miss Leathley is in the house? I should 
be glad to see her for a moment or two on a 
little matter of business” — if Loevio didn’t laugh 
when he said this, the Fates must have laughed 
heartily as they heard it — “ a little matter of business. 
Er — Miss Leathley was good enough to say she 
would give me a minute this morning, but I am afraid 
she must have forgotten ; and our conversation was 
so engrossing / quite forgot everything. I am 
very careless ! ” 

He smiled beautifully, and his clear, liquid blue 
eyes looked more frankly ingenuous than ever. 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley felt annoyed with her 
sister-in-law — very much annoyed. 

“ Victoria never thinks of any one but herself,” 
she thought at once. 

She stood up and rang the bell. 

“ I’ll find her for you,” she said briskly ; and she 
beamed on Loevio with greater favour than ever. 

“ Oh, thanks so much ! It is merely a small 
arrangement that I fancied might be made for 
Miss Leathley. It might be of trifling service to her 
opera, especially the new one ; and I do not 
like to lose the opportunity of talking it over with 
her. We are both such busy people that ” 

“ Of course,” cried Mrs. Edmund Leathley. “ How 
busy you must be ! So good of you to think of 
troubling about the affair ! ” 

“No, no, not at all.” 

He smiled a gentle smile of deprecation. 


262 


A NEW NOTE. 


A servant, in response to Mrs. Edmund Leathley’s 
summons, appeared at that moment. 

“ Inquire if Miss Leathley is in the house,” said 
Mrs. Edmund Leathley to the man. 

The latter retired. 

Loevio turned again to his hostess. 

“ I believe,” he said, with a faint, wistful smile, 
“your sister-in-law has a most enchanting retreat 
in the turret wing. She did once say I should 
see the music-room where ‘ Sappho * was written ; 
but no doubt she has forgotten all about it.” 

“ Did she ? ” said Mrs. Edmund Leathley at once. 
Mrs. Edmund Leathley never permitted any one — 
if she knew it — to tamper with promises once made. 
“ How very like Victoria ! ” she said to herself. “ I 
can’t bear that sort of unconscientiousness,” she 
added, to herself also. 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley was nothing if she was 
not conscientious. 

“He shall see the room if he wants to,” was her 
conclusive thought. 

The door opened. 

“ Miss Leathley,” said the footman, “ is in her 
music-room, if you please, m’m .” 

Loevio nearly grinned. As it was, he was obliged 
to turn away his head for a moment. Because he 
had heard — what his hostess had not heard— he 
had heard, or rather, he had overheard, Victoria say 
that she was going to her music-room for the 
morning. 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley rose from her chair 
promptly. 

“ Now , Mr. Loevio you shall see Victoria’s den> 
and have your chat with Victoria at once.” 


A NEW NOTE. 


263 


She beamed on him with added favour. 

“ I really must speak to Victoria,” she continued 
severely. “ She is so careless of how she trespasses 
on other people’s kindness. She should not have 
forgotten your kind interest, and walked off without 
asking your wishes. She should have remembered 
how limited your time is, and how good it is of 
you to trouble about her affairs. I shall speak to her.” 

Loevio stretched out his hands. 

“ Oh, pray don’t let her think that I was annoyed ! 
May I entreat you not to say anything of this to 
her ? I should hate her even to think that she had 
done anything to annoy me. It would be too bad 
to make her feel bored in any way. There is nothing 
for which I feel so appalling an objection, which is so 
horrible, as the idea of being a bore. As a favour, 
to me, perhaps you will not mention this — er — 
this conversation.” 

“ You are too kind, too considerate, Mr. Loevio.” 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley smiled with overwhelming 
graciousness, as she said it. 

“Infernal old cackler!” said Mr. Loevio, privately, 
as he followed her with alacrity up the turret stairs. 

“ I shall not scold Victoria this time,” she added, 
quite confidentially, as they reached the top of the 
stairs, “for your sake. And I suppose we must forgive 
her a good deal just at present. An engagement 
is a trying — what? Oh, yes, yes, the wedding will 
be in July. Ah, here she is, hidden away as usual.” 

Here was Victoria, surely staring blankly, dumbly, 
at both her visitors — at Loevio, who was smiling 
beautifully. 

Loevio had done a daring thing, a very daring 
thing, in thus tracking Victoria ; but Loevio did 


264 


A NEW NOTE. 


many daring things. Loevio would have dared even 
the devil, he said himself — but a good deal at all 
events ; which was perhaps one factor in the success 
of his undertakings. 

Loevio now was daring. But Loevio was strong, 
and Victoria was weak, and the Fates were befriending 
Loevio — those terrible Fates, that always run to the 
winning side. 

Loevio began with Art. He talked Art admirably 
for fully ten minutes. No one else was able to get 
in a word. Not Victoria, who was powerless and 
speechless, nor Mrs. Edmund Leathley, who was 
soon bored. 

That was precisely what Loevio had in view. He 
hoped Mrs. Edmund Leathley would be bored, for 
then she would go. 

Go he was determined she should, but — one can’t 
very well turn one’s hostess out of a room in her 
own house. 

Loevio was very patient, but he flung Art at Mrs. 
Edmund Leathley — Art, in the abstract, and with- 
out, as hitherto, any connection of the same with the 
concrete talents and virtues of Mrs. Edmund Leathley 
herself ; and the result justified Loevio’s calculations. 

In ten minutes, Mrs. Edmund Leathley found 
that she was bored. In eleven minutes, she recol- 
lected that she wished to interview the cook on the 
subject of a new curry. Half a minute later, she re- 
membered that she had not given Harris the bottle 
with Trottie’s new tonic ; and before the other 
half-minute had run its course, she was out of the 
door, on her way downstairs, commending Mr. 
Loevio before she went to her pale sister-in-law's care. 

“Dear me,” she thought, as she went, “how un- 


A NEW NOTE. 


265 


sociable and how selfish Victoria is ! She looked 
positively bored — almost cross — at our interrupting 
her. Upon my word, I think she might make herself 
agreeable to her father’s guest. I can’t look after 
every one. She might, at least, help a little. But she’s 
dreadfully spoilt.” 

Mrs. Edmund Leathley pattered down the turret 
stairs to the excellent accompaniment of her own 
admirable reflections. The gaiety of a conscience 
void of offence inspirited her. 

“ I never could understand Victoria,” she added 
conclusively, as she reached the lowest step. She 
did not add, perhaps, because the fact was one which 
needed no recalling, that she did not like people 
whom she could not understand. 

Loevio went on talking, and listening — listening 
attentively to the patter of those irreproachable 
matronly feet, until the baize door leading into the 
corridor slammed. 

Then, and not till then, did Loevio stop talking. 

But then he did stop, and he crossed the room 
without a word, and calmly shut the door close. 

There is quite a draught,” he said suavely, to 
Victoria, who stood between her writing-table and 
one of the windows, motionless. 

Loevio went very close to her. 

“You mustn’t give yourself a horrid cold,” he 
continued softly. 

Victoria’s heart beat to suffocation. She looked 
at him imploringly, with dark, cold eyes, and scarlet 
cheeks — cheeks from which a moment later every 
vestige of the hot colour faded. 

He smiled into her eyes. He was sure of the 
future now. 


2 66 


A NEW NOTE. 


Still Victoria stood motionless, silent. 

Loevio, drawing nearer, feasted his eyes to the 
full upon her, there beside him. His eyes noted 
every detail. He saw the dark cloudiness of her 
hair, the outline of one pallid cheek, the corners of 
the firm, proud lips, the side of the round, white throat 
with one small ear above it, between the dark depth 
of her hair and the soft band of her fresh, spring 
dress. He trembled. Every fibre of his artistic tem- 
perament thrilled responsively to the aspect of this 
quaint, beautiful room, and the close presence of its 
owner. 

Nevertheless, though he trembled, his voice, when 
he spoke, was quite steady. 

“ How very tired you look ! ” 

She started and turned pale — paler, if that were 
possible, than before. The emphasis of the words, 
the low tenderness of his intonation, were unmis- 
takable. She moved away from him quickly. 

Loevio drew back with an inimitable gesture of 
wounded feeling. 

“ Forgive me ! ” he said quickly. “ I have no right 
to remark upon your looks, but — it — it hurts me 
to see you look as if you — you were suffering.” 

A swift tremor of emotion quivered across her lips. 

Loevio saw it ; he made a step forward. But 
Victoria drew herself up. She met his pleading 
gaze with a cold droop of her eyelids. She tried 
to smile, coldly, indifferently. 

“ Oh, thanks,” she said stiffly. “ My looks are 
deceptive, I’m afraid. I don’t think I feel par- 
ticularly tired just at present.” 

He looked at her once more — a full, intent look — 
for the space of a second. Her eyes fell before it 


A NEW NOTE. 


267 


He came close to her again, with a sudden and, 
it would seem, irresistible impulse. The words 
which, as it seemed also, burst from his lips, could 
not apparently be stayed. 

“ Oh, my child, my dearest ! why, why do you 
try to deceive me? Wait, hear me ! Do you know 
why I came down here ? Because your face has 
haunted me. My own happiness was nothing — 
nothing, but yours ! ” 

“Mr. Loevio, please move. Allow me to leave 
the room/' 

The studied coldness of the words was perfect. 
But her face was not so perfectly controlled. 

Loevio watched the latter. 

He stood aside at once out of her path. 

“ Go,” he exclaimed huskily, “ by all means ; 
but ” — his voice broke suddenly — “ God forgive 
you ! ” 

She hesitated. He saw it, though his eyes were 
averted ; he felt it ; he knew that she hesitated. 
He waited. He was not a great actor, he was not 
a student of human passion, for nothing. He 

waited. 

She did not go. She turned to him instead, and 
her lips quivered. 

“ I beg your pardon ! ” she said tremulously. “ I 
— I had no right to speak like that; but ” 

He shook his head. 

“ Victoria/’ — it was the first time he had ever 
uttered her Christian name in her hearing, — “why 
are you doing this thing?” 

His voice was harsh, even in its delicious musical 
timbre. He walked up and down the room in 
unconcealed agitation. 


268 


A NEW NOTE. 


“ If I could only get you to realise it ! ” he con- 
tinued imploringly. “ If you could only know or 
understand what it is that you intend to do ! Think 
what it will be to bind yourself by the hardest of 
all rivets, for your life, for days, and weeks, and 
years ! Think, think, for a moment ! Why are 
you doing it? For God’s sake, why should you 
do such an evil thing ? — for it is evil ! ” 

She shivered. He saw that she shivered. He 
paused for one brief second of time. His voice, 
when he spoke again, was less harsh ; it grew pleading, 
persuasive, once more. 

“ Don’t, don’t persist. It is to do yourself the 
cruellest injury that man or woman can inflict upon 
themselves. Think of your life, your happiness, 
your peace of mind ! ” 

She raised her eyes to his face. A smile, which 
had a touch of irony in it, curled round her lips. 

“You are very kind,” she said, interrupting him; 
“ but I am, I assure you, quite old enough to take 
care of my own interests.” 

The words were very nearly insolent. They 
implied so unmistakably the speaker’s construction 
of his motives. 

Loevio flung out his hands despairingly. 

“ You — are very generous.” 

His voice, as he said it, sank lower, almost to a 
whisper. 

Victoria’s face changed. At once he saw the 
softening of its delicate outlines. He raised his 
head again. He drew himself to his full height 
as he stood before her. 

“ But it is true,” he said impulsively, with a warm, 
passionate ring in his voice ; “ it is true. I do care. 


A NEW NOTE. 


269 


It is everything to me. Why should I not say it? 
I am not ashamed to own it. I do care. Ah, you 
know it. You know that I have cared for — for 
years , and yet you do this! You want to ruin my 
life, and — your own. Oh, you can't deny it — you 
can't, for you're a truthful, sincere woman ; you 
want to ruin our lives, both our lives, just for a 
pitiful prejudice of pride! Victoria” — his voice 
which was so musical, so flexible, so perfectly 
trained to every shade of effective intonation, 
changed again— “ Victoria, say it to me once, even 
if you never speak to me again ; say, at all events, 
that you do care for me— a little bit.” 

She turned away and put out her hand to keep 
him back. He made no attempt to move towards 
her. Standing where he was, he laughed — a slight, 
bitter, ironical laugh. 

“ It is a good thing,” he said, with cool, biting 
sarcasm, “to be a woman of the world. My God, 
what a good thing it must be to be a woman of 
the world, with one's heart in excellent control ! ” 
Victoria's face flushed scarlet. She sank down 
helplessly on the window seat. Her lips quivered. 

“You are wrong,” she whispered, “quite wrong; 
and it is mean and contemptible of any man to 
come and — and persecute a woman as you are — 

persecuting me. I — I ” 

Loevio stamped his foot coolly. 

“ Pshaw ! ” he exclaimed brusquely, with a sudden 
and consummately effective change of manner. 
“ What is the use of the old stale platitudes and 
commonplaces? We are not children, you and I. 
We are not boy and girl. We each know the other's 
feelings. And if you do this, you do it without a 


270 


A NEW NOTE. 


shadow of excuse — not the shadow of a shade. 
You sacrifice me; you sacrifice — Mr. Annesley — 
for the sake of a prejudice. I know it, I know 
it — a prejudice ! ” 

His roughness, his vehemence, the relentless logic 
of his assertions, joined to the tell-tale witness of 
her own heart, overcame her. She had nothing 
to answer, nothing to put forward. Besides — she 
loved him, and her heart was helpless in his 
hands. 

“Well, I shall soon be gone. I sha’n’t trouble 
you any more ; be assured of that. I only came 
because — your happiness — is the dearest object of 
my life, and because — I love you. I shall never 
say it again. Let me say it now. Victoria, my 
love ! my darling ! ” 

But while he said it he did not move one inch 
nearer to her ; not one inch. He held out his 
hand towards her where she sat in the window seat. 

“Won’t you say good-bye,” he said softly, with 
a perfect little gesture of penitence and deference ; 
“ and forgive me ? Let us part — friends, at all 
events.” 

But Victoria broke down utterly. She burst into 
a storm of hysterical weeping. 

Loevio was struck with consternation, or seemed 
so, anyhow. 

With a quick impulse he knelt down beside her; 
but still he did not touch her. 

“ Oh, don’t ! ” he cried tenderly. “ Don’t give way 
like this ! I am so sorry ! I had no right to be 
so cruel to you.” 

He paused ; but she could not speak. Her sobs 
were deep and broken. He felt her whole frame 


A NEW NOTE. 


271 


being shaken by them. He laid his hand very 
timidly on the seat beside her. It just touched 
the edge of her dress. 

“ I am so sorry ! he said again gently. 

She raised her face as he spoke ; it was stained 
with scarlet, and drawn with pain, and the tears 
hung on her eyelashes. 

“ What am I to do? Oh, what am I to do? It 
is breaking my heart, the whole thing!” 

Loevio’s eyes almost flashed. His heart leaped 
into his throat, but he controlled himself admir- 
ably. His accents were commendably firm and 
reproving. 

“ What are you to do, my dear, dear love ? 
Will you try to be reasonable ? — to look at the 
matter from a right standpoint? You are naturally 
thinking more of — another person — than of yourself 
or — me. Well, I believe you will do that other 
person an infinitely smaller injury by refusing to 
marry him, when you do not care for him, than in 
fulfilling an engagement which you know you shrink 
from. I know it is not a nice thing for one 
man to plead against another, but the right is on 
my side — it is, believe me. And I have waited, 
and worked, and hoped, only to be rewarded by 
knowing that you — care for me, and marry another 
man. I ask you, in all reason, in all justice, are 
you acting fairly?” 

A little, shuddering sigh of indecision broke from 
her lips. She raised her hand, her left hand, and 
pushed back the soft hair from her forehead, as if 
even its slight pressure hurt her. Loevio, as she 
did so, saw the brilliancy of Annesley’s ring on 
her finger. 


2J2 


A NEW NOTE. 


He gathered her right hand into his own. His 
fingers closed firmly round the soft palm. He 
gazed at her beseechingly. 

“ Victoria ! ” That was all he said — just the one 
word. 

But there are many ways of saying even one 
word. 

“ I am wrong, and you know it. I am a low, 
contemptible fool. I belong truly — to — Jerry.” 

Loevio clenched his teeth furiously, but no word 
escaped his lips. 

“ I — -promised — Jerry. How could I — how can I 
— insult him ? ” 

Loevio’s hand held hers in its strong clasp. He 
was drawing close to her — so close now, that his 
silky, auburn hair touched her face, which was 
twisted and distorted with crying. The touch of 
it against her cheek made her heart throb in double 
time. 

“ Victoria ! ” said Loevio again, very softly. “ Vic- 
toria!” There was no need for him to say more. 

Victoria was a woman — in love. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


So Loevio got what he wanted, or nearly so. 
Because, although some time had gone by, Victoria 
still halted between two courses of action — still 
shivered, temporised, procrastinated. She had sworn 
to Loevio that she would set herself free, and yet 
she had not done so. 

Annesley, detained during these days in Ireland, 
was still her affianced husband. His ring was on 
her finger. His claims were publicly acknowledged. 
Even the date of her marriage with him was fixed 
and unaltered. 

This could not go on ; assuredly it could not 
go on. 

The thought of it all was bad enough when she 
was down at Eastaston, and separated from Loevio, 
but when Victoria found herself in London the 
present state of things became nearly torture. For 
in London Loevio was close to her — Loevio, now 
a passionate lover, who would not, could not, be 
denied. Here day by day was Loevio, urging, en- 
treating, imploring her to fulfil the promise he had 
won from her. 

Again and again Victoria reiterated her promise 
to him. 

She determined that she would write to Annesley. 
She would write a full, pitiful, beseeching letter ; 
a letter explaining everything, confessing everything ; 

*73 X8 


274 


A NEW NOTE. 


one which would beg for pardon, and one which 
— if she knew Annesley — would obtain for her her 
release. 

Every day Victoria told herself she would write 
that letter. Yet it remained unwritten. 

It remained unwritten until the day came when, 
if it were to be written at all, it could be delayed 
no longer. For, she got a letter from Annesley 
telling her that at last all the tiresome business which 
his approaching marriage had brought upon him, 
was nearly at an end, and she would see him in 
a few days. In a week he was coming to London. 

A week ! And she had left him even up to this 
in a fool’s paradise ! 

Victoria must write that letter now, if ever. She 
did write a letter, which she tore up the next 
minute, saying it was a miserable, abominable thing, 
and she would try again. She tried again — and 
again, with but one result ; waste of time, ink, and 
paper. 

“ I cannot write,” she said to herself despairingly. 
“ I cannot ! ” 

The days of the week went by. Five, six, 
seven. Only one more day, and Annesley would 
arrive. Victoria had not written. Indeed, she 
had given up all thought of writing. She could 
not write. 

It would be easier, she told herself, to speak to 
Jerry — dear, kind Jerry, who was always so good 
to her. 

So the day came at last, and Annesley came, 
and the time and the opportunity came, as they 
always come, sooner or later. 

Annesley arrived, full of hope, full of confidence 


A NEW NOTE. 


275 


full of joy. He came in very radiant, very smiling, 
and very carefully ' dressed. He never forgot Victoria's 
fastidiousness in minor matters. He was shrewd 
enough to know that with a woman such little 
things yet go a long way. 

Victoria thought she had never seen him look to 
such advantage. Happiness, after all, is the best 
beautifier. In the full flush of his happiness 
Annesley looked nearly handsome. Victoria, even 
in her miserable agitation, perceived it. In a 
moment, too, she noticed with pleasure the set of 
his frock coat, and the tasteful arrangement of 
his button-hole. Another moment and the thought 
flashed across her mind that Loevio, who wore 
precisely the same sort of frock-coat and quite 
as tasteful a buttonhole, did not, nevertheless, 
succeed in looking — as Annesley looked— quite a 
gentleman. 

It hurt her sharply, this thought — so sharply that 
the pain perhaps nerved her, perhaps goaded her, 
to the task that lay before her. 

“ Victoria ! ” exclaimed Annesley, as he caught 
sight of her standing beside the drawing-room 
mantelpiece in Rutland Gardens, waiting for him. 
“ My darling, at last I have got free. Did you 
think I was never coming ? 99 

He had come over close to her as he spoke, and 
was trying to take her hand. 

Victoria turned away from him deliberately. 
Deliberately she ignored his outstretched hand. Her 
lips set themselves hardly. 

“ Wait a minute, Jerry. I want to speak to 
you.” 

He retreated, feeling a little chilled, naturally, 


2 j6 


A NEW NOTE. 


at such a reception. But the feeling was only 
momentary. He remembered at once that Victoria 
rebelled more or less at all times against over-much 
demonstration in their relationship with each other. 
Nevertheless, it was so long since he had seen her ! 
And he was a man, and he was in love. Flesh and 
blood, especially if they be in love, are reckless of 
restraint sometimes. 

Before she could speak he had drawn her into 
his arms. In a second he would have kissed her. 
But Victoria, with a strength that was insolent in 
its rudeness, shook him off promptly. 

“ I asked you,” she said coldly, “ to leave me alone 
for a minute ; you know I hate that sort of kissing.” 

This was pretty well from the woman who allowed 
Loevio to make love to her ! 

Annesley, dumb from amazement, stood silent on 
the spot where she had rudely pushed him. He 
stared helplessly at her, while he tried at the same 
time to collect his scattered wits. His gaze drove 
her wild. 

“ Oh, don't ! ” she cried sharply, and the note of 
pain in her voice struck on his ear harshly — “ don't 
don't — worry — me ! I — I ” 

Annesley looked more and more bewildered. 

One thing only was clear to him — that it was 
Victoria who was speaking. Everything must be 
forgiven, and permitted, to Victoria. 

“ Dearest,” he said gently, “ I sha'n't worry you. 
You are worrying yourself. Tell me what it's all 
about.” 

“ Oh, Jerry, Jerry, dear Jerry!” cried the girl 
miserably, “ I am so wretched ! Oh, don't, don't come 
near me. I don't want you ; I don't want any one ; 


A NEW NOTE. 


2 77 

I only want to be let alone. I wish I could go 
away, and never see any of your faces again ! ” 

“ What the deuce is it all about ? ” said the man 
helplessly. 

Victoria looked up in his face. Her own face grew 
scarlet. She waited, just to nerve herself for the one 
supreme effort. 

She never afterwards forgot that moment. The 
room, even a particular Capo-di-Monte bowl on the 
mantelpiece which had got awry, and out of its 
place, and which was standing crookedly, always 
remained hereafter mixed up with the remembrance 
of this scene, and with Jerry’s honest, kind face 
with its expression of blank amazement. The 
amazement in his face awoke in her an hysterical 
and senseless inclination to laugh — or was it to cry ? 
Possibly. 

“ What’s it all about ? ” repeated Annesley once 
more. “ Tell me,” he added coaxingly. “ Tell me, 
Victoria.” 

Victoria panted and turned pale. 

“Jerry, don’t you think — I think — in fact, I am — 
quite sure it is — awfully wrong. — Oh, it is a 
downright sin — for a woman to — marry one — man — 
when she — she cares really about another. Isn’t it 
a downright sin, Jerry?” 

There was no reply. Annesley’s face changed 
suddenly, ominously. 

Victoria, desperate now, perhaps driven desperate 
by what she saw in his face, rushed on impetuously. 

“ I think it’s a downright sin, and I think it’s a 
downright sin of any one to force a woman into 
marrying a man — whom — she does not love.” She 
walked up and down the hearthrug, and beat her 


2?S 


A NEW NOTE. 


feet rapidly. “ I do , and I think a — man who would 
force a girl to keep to a promise — after she told 
him — that she” (more scarlet blushes) — “ cared for 
— for another man, is a cruel, mean ” 

Annesley stood in front of her. 

“ Victoria,” — his voice sounded nearly shrill, it was 
so strained and harsh — “ what in God’s name do you 
mean. What do you mean> Victoria ? Answer 
me!” 

Her eyes flashed. 

“ I mean ” 

She began boldly, but she could not finish it. She 
faltered and grew shamefaced under the look in 
his eyes. 

“ Ah, Jerry, dear Jerry, don’t be angry ! don’t look 
at me like that ! Oh, it is not my fault. I — wanted 
to care for you, I did really, and I tried ; but it was 
no use — no use. He came, and I — I — oh, Jerry, don’t 
press me, it’s very hard for a woman to have to speak 
like this; but you won’t mind, J*erry, will you, giving 
— it — up, I mean your — our — engagement ? ” 

She stopped. The words did indeed nearly choke 
her. She did not dare look at Annesley. She felt, 
if she could not see, what his face was like. Her own 
face was pitiable with the drawn, shamed eagerness 
in it lying on its very surface. 

There was a dead silence. Suddenly a cuckoo- 
clock somewhere in the house chimed out the hour 
in quick, tuneful notes. 

Annesley’s voice began speaking again. It sounded 
to Victoria as if it were miles away — away in a dim, 
distant fog ; yet she heard the syllables clearly enough. 
He stood quite still. He made no attempt to move 
nearer to her. She was leaning against the mantel- 


A NEW NOTE. 


279 


piece. He was standing outwards, on the carpet, 
beyond the rug. 

“ There is not the slightest use/’ he said, “ in 
pretending that I don’t understand what you are 
saying. You want me, Victoria, to — to — give you 
up. I suppose that’s what it all amounts to. To — 
give you up — to — another man. Curse him, whoever 
he is ! ” 

That was the only savage word Annesley said in 
the whole affair. Surely it was pardonable ! 

“ Yes, curse him, whoever he is ! ” 

He paused, and smiled, a poor, wan smile, and 
came a little nearer to where she stood with her head 
bent down and her white quivering mouth. “ Poor 
Victoria ! No, don’t shrink, dear. I’m not a brute 
or a slave-driver. I’m not going to — to force you 
to marry me against your will. God forbid ! It 
doesn’t matter, I suppose, much. Well — I hope — to 
God — the other fellow, whoever he is — is worth it — 
all. Oh, it doesn’t matter a bit, only — have you 
explained to — to them all, eh, what ? ” 

She shook her head as it lay almost on the 
mantelpiece. 

“ Oh, Jerry, they — will be — furious! Oh, Jerry! 
they will be so furious at my — j — j — jilting you ! ” 

“ Well,” said Annesley, with a grim, pale ghost of 
a laugh, “ I don’t see what’s to be done, unless / — 
jilt you” 

Then, as she looked at him with dark, piteous eyes, 
he felt a mist before his own. 

“ Look here,” he said warmly, taking her hand 
as he spoke — her left hand, with his shining, glittering 
ring still upon the third finger — into his kind, 
friendly grasp — “hang me if I’ll let you bear it 


280 


A NEW NOTE. 


all ! Whatever you say, Victoria, I’ll — 1*11 back it 
up ; I will, truly. We can say, can’t we ” — and he 
laughed another sad ghost of a laugh — “ that we 
have found out we don’t quite hit it off, you know 
or some such rot. Any rot will do, eh, Victoria? 
Oh, I say, don’t cry anyhow, darl ” 

“ I am a beast,” she sobbed brokenly. “ Oh, 
Jerry, I am so sorry. Jerry, I will keep my promise 
to you. I will, I will ! ” 

He smiled a little bitterly. 

“ I wonder, Victoria, whether you do love any 
one — any man, I mean! No, my dear; it’s best 
for you to have the fellow you care for. You’re 
not the sort of person, nor am I, to try any dodges 
like that.” 

His voice broke suddenly, and there was a pause. 

“ I suppose,” he said hoarsely a moment or two 
later, breaking the pause, “I — I had better go.” 

She raised her head as he spoke. Her face 
was deadly pale, indeed, and wrung with agitation, 
but her eyes were dry. She took the sapphire- 
and-diamond ring off her finger, and held it out to 
him. 

“ Here — Jerry — I ” — her voice stumbled shamedly 
— “ I will send the other — things — to-morrow.” 

He never made a movement to take the ring. 
Victoria laid it hurriedly, as if it burnt her fingers, 
in the hand which he had held out to say good- 
bye. It slid from Annesley’s open, flaccid palm 
down noiselessly on to the soft rug. 

Rings, jewels, love-tokens, what were they now? 
What mattered it where they went? 

The ring lay on the rug. Neither Victoria nor 
Annesley remembered it They remembered 


A NEW NOTE. 


28l 

nothing, indeed, but he the pain, and she the 
shame, of their parting. 

The ring lay in the soft rug till the housemaid 
picked it up the next morning, and carried it to 
the housekeeper. 

Annesley stumbled home — home to an hotel 
sitting-room, through the streets of London ; 
through the park, gay and fresh, and radiant in 
the early summer sunshine ; through the noise and 
din ; through the dull commonplace of existence. 
That was what it would be always now — the dull, 
dull, dull commonplace of existence. Yet why should 
he complain? He was no worse off — in many respects 
far better off — than millions of his fellow-creatures. 
Did he complain ? No ; he thought he did not. 
But — that it should be — Loevio ! 

Loevio ! When she told him, he was stricken 
dumb. Loevio ! “ If it had been any one else,” 

he kept saying to himself all along the streets, that 
glorious summer morning, “ any one of ourselves , I 
could have borne it better. But a common cad, 
a damned, grimacing cad like that — and Victoria ! 
Good God, to think of it ! ” 

He got home — home to the hotel sitting-room — 
somehow. 

Many persons find a hotel all the home they 
need. 

Besides, had not Annesley five clubs at his 
disposal? Five clubs, each in their several ways 
delectable places of abode and relaxation. One or 
two something even better — guarded precincts, only 
to be entered by the select and favoured few. 

What man can want a home who has five clubs 
of the choicest pick at his beck and call ? 


282 


A NEW NOTE. 


What a world of compensations is ours, after all ! 

Annesley went into his hotel sitting-room, and 
sat down at the round table in the centre of the 
room — that piece of furniture which is the piece-de- 
resistance of hotel sitting-rooms. 

Annesley sat down, dully, stupidly. He felt cold, 
though the sun was shining hotly — cold, at his 
heart. His head, heavy and weary, sank down on 
his folded arms. It sank down till it rested on the 
table beneath. His shoulders and his loins trembled. 
Presently his whole frame was shaken from head 
to foot with the force of the tearless sobs — the sobs 
of a strong man — that were wrung from his innermost 
heart. 

For it was all over. He had been lifted up to 
heaven, and was cast down again to earth — dull, 
barren earth. 

It was all over. 

But the five clubs remained 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


WELL, well, well,” said Mr. Leathley, and he 
said it a little testily, which was scarcely to be 
wondered at. “ Oh there, my dear, there, don’t cry 
any more ! Angry ! Am I angry ? eh, what ? Oh 
no, I am not angry, Victoria, but I’m confoundedly 
disappointed, that’s all. But, well,”— he passed his 
hand a little impatiently over his hair — “ I suppose 
it can’t be helped ! There, my dear little girl, dry 
your eyes. I suppose these — these things never 
can be helped.” 

“ I wish,” said Victoria wildly, “ I wish I had 
never learned music, never had anything to do 
with it ! Oh why, why did you let me do it ? ” 

She was crying bitterly, into her lap ; otherwise 
it is to be hoped she would have paused before 
saying such words, had she seen her father’s 
face. 

“My child, it is scarcely fair to blame me ! ” His 
voice was husky and his face was drawn. “God 
knows, no man ever cared more for — for his children’s 
happiness than I do ! ” 

“ Oh, I know,” cried his daughter impatiently. 
‘Oh, don’t mind what I say. Only I hate to hurt 
you all so dreadfully. But, after all, it’s not my 
fault , is it father, dearest? Now is it?” 

Mr. Leathley patted the dark head indulgently. 

“Well, no, little woman, I suppose it is not 1 

283 


284 


A NEW NOTE. 


There now, try to get calm. Why this — this other 
fellow, number two, you know, hey? — will be here 
directly ! ” 

Victoria shook her head vehemently. 

“ No, no, I told him not to come near me till I 
—till ” 

“ To-morrow,” said her father; and his eyes — he 
couldn’t help it, though he was distracted and 
worried — his eyes twinkled unmistakably. “ To- 
morrow, little woman, eh? However, you must 
dry your eyes, and make the best of it. It’s a 
bad bargain, but then bad bargains must be made 
the best of. God bless my soul, I’ve spent my 
life trying to make the best of several bad bargains, 
yourself included.” 

He smiled ; he had learned to smile at so much. 

“ There, now ” — he bent down and kissed her 
fondly — at least, he scrubbed his cheek lovingly 
against hers ; that was as much as her position would 
let him manage — “ that’s agreed ; we’re all agreed 
all agreed — to differ. It’s the only true philosophy 
of life.” 

He raised himself up erectly, and looked at 
Victoria once more. Then he went down to his 
study. When he got there he sat down and opened 
— a Blue-Book. There was profound stillness for 
some time in the little, stuffy room. Deep repose 
is to be found — in a Blue-Book. 

But suddenly the door of the little, stuffy room 
burst open. Mr. Leathley looked up. The Blue- 
Book fell down — fell face downwards on the floor. 

Mr. Leathley’s eldest son stood before his father. 
The eyes of his eldest son sparkled angrily. They 
fixed themselves on his father, and his father 


A NEW NOTE. 


285 


moved uneasily in his chair. He sighed. But he 
waited — in silence. Waiting was characteristic of 
this lazy, good-humoured politican, who might have 
been a statesman if he had only taken the trouble. 
He had not now long to wait. His eldest son 
was quite ready for him. More than quite ready ; 
furious to begin. He began forthwith. 

“ I say, sir, what the devil's all this confounded 
humbug I hear about Victoria ?” 

There was no reply. 

Edmund Leathley brought his hand down heavily 
on the leather-topped secretary table. 

The odds-and-ends, which included Blue-Books, 
and note-books, and open letters, and scattered 
draughts, or portions of draughts, of parliamentary 
Bills, and an Act of Parliament or two, and a new 
French novel jigged in under one Act, Cap. 26, 
5th William IV. — all the paraphernalia, in fact, 
of a legislator's writing-table — shook and rattled 
under the shock of Edmund Leathley's square 
fist ; and the French novel escaped altogether from 
beneath the awful majesty of the British constitution, 
and lay naked, and it is hoped not ashamed, in 
the full light of day. 

“ Well, upon my soul, you're a precious lot of — 
of — to do a chap such a blackguard turn. I wonder 
you can sit there." 

“ Edmund ,” said his father. 

The son’s eyes fell ; the son’s face had the grace 
to look ashamed. 

“ I — I " he stammered. 

He was a fine young Englishman. Englishmen 
are not facile, not graceful in apology, even with 
their own fathers. 


286 


A NEW NOTE. 


“ Look here, sir, you don’t think of me .” The 
Englishman, embarked once more on his own share 
of things, grew fluent easily. “ Jerry is my friend. 
Look at the pals we’ve been these years and years. 
I brought him to the house, I introduced him to 
my family, I and my people are supposed to — to 
show him, at least, common — common — decency. 
Then my sister first chooses to accept his proposals 
— a jolly sight too good for her they were, too, a 
jolly sight!” 

Mr. Leathley’s lips compressed themselves tightly. 

“Take care,” he said quietly. “Remember she is 
your sister.” 

“ Oh, I don’t know, it’s a confounded shame, 
that’s what it is — a confounded shame. The best 
fellow in the whole world, bar none!” There was 
a quiver of real feeling in the voice, that gave 
Mr. Leathley more patience with him. “ The best 
fellow ! As straight as a die, and to be treated like 
this ! Made a laughing-stock to the world by a — 
a — a — an imp of a girl ! Victoria always was an 
imp, since she could speak, and before it. It’s a 
shame — a burning, thundering shame.” He began 
stamping like an angry horse in a narrow stall. 

“ None of us ever did such a thing in our lives. 
Look at me. Here am I ; I made up my mind to 
marry Gertrude, and I married her, and she married 
me. That’s what I call being on the square. The 
Leathleys always have been on the square. No 
one could ever say, till now, that a Leathley 
wasn’t straight . I don’t suppose we’re much better 
than other people — I, for my part, don’t set myself 
up to be better than my fellows — but, thank 
God, I think I can act straight by most men. 



“Eemember she is your sister .” — Page 286 
























































































































* 

_ b J 




♦ 



A NEW NOTE. 2 87 

All the Leathleys are straight, except your precious 
Victoria.” 

Mr. Leathley stood up ; he bit his lip, and a 
flash of anger showed itself in his usually clear 
eyes. 

“ Be quiet ! ” he said sharply ; and his son was 
quiet, from surprise. ‘‘You, sir, are not your sister’s 
ke^ per.” 

Edmund Leathley laughed sneeringly. 

“You’ve always spoilt her,” he said furiously; 
“ always. Victoria has had this, and that, and the 
other thing, just what she liked, from the day she 
was born. If she cried for the moon you’d tell 
her she should get it. It’s perfectly absurd. And 
a pretty way she’s repaid you ! Oh, she may be 
a great swell, and compose all the — the music in 
the world. That won’t excuse her in my eyes. I 
never could see why every one made such a fuss 
about Victoria — I never could see it. Gertrude never 
could see it either. Gertrude says — and I quite 
agree with her — Gertrude says ” 

Mr. Leathley turned, at bay. 

“ Ah, for God’s sake,” he cried sharply, “ don’t bother 
me with what Gertrude says. Go and hear it all 
from her yourself, and say all you have to say 
to her. Victoria is my child, and so are you. If 
I have done wrongly by any of you, God forgive 
me, that’s all. You, sir, are not my judge. You, sir, 
are not the person to put me on my trial. Go! 
Go away ! ” 

“ I don’t mean to do anything of the kind,’ 
muttered his son sulkily ; “ but I only say that 
Victoria has always been spoilt, outrageously spoilt. 
However, I don’t care ” (but he did care). “ I don’t 


288 


A NEW NOTE. 


care. I wash my hands of her now ; I can tell her 
that. I suppose” — with a glance at his father’s 
small, silent figure—" I may take myself off. I'm 
not wanted. None of us are wanted so long as 
Victoria is in possession.” 

Mr. Leathley raised his eyes. 

“ My boy,” he said gently, generously, “ I am 
more grieved than I can say. But, much as I 
feel for Jerry, it would be worse for him by far 
to marry a wife who was not sure of her affection 
for him, or of her own feelings.” 

“ Feelings ! ” interrupted his son angrily. “ Feelings 
be hanged! A woman of eight-and-twenty ought 
to have known her own feelings long ago. What 
about poor old Jerry’s feelings ?— made a fool of, 
a laughing-stock of! Oh, I’m off. I suppose” 
with a short laugh — “there’s no more to be said.’ 
His father heaved a sigh of relief. “I conclude 
you mean to give her her own way. Perhaps you 
will allow me to ask if you have made any inquiries, 
or intend to make any inquiries, about this estimable 
gentleman whom Victoria prefers to Jerry Annesley? 

“ My dear Edmund,” replied his father, “ I shall 
take care of Victoria, I assure you, to the best of 
my power.” 

His son laughed again. 

« Oh, Victoria ’ll have her own way — trust her 
for that! Well, whatever happens, I sha’n’t pity 
her. If she chooses to marry a damned cad like 
that, and if he beats her black and blue one of 
these days, I sha’n’t pity her. Serve her jolly well 
right, say I — jolly well right ! ” 

He flung himself out of the room then, and 
banged the door behind him so that the walls shook. 


A NEW NOTE. 


289 


Mr. Leathley, left alone, sighed once more. He 
pressed his hand to his brow as if it ached. He 
looked tired and old, and he looked lonely too ; 
he felt lonely, in truth ; but that he was accustomed 
to — much more accustomed, indeed, than his children 
would have supposed. As he thought of Edmund's 
words, he sighed again. 

Edmund’s words were true. He knew it. He 
had spoilt Victoria, if by spoiling her it was meant 
that her happiness was all-paramount in his eyes. 
He was a just man, and he was just even with 
himself. It was true. He could never deny Victoria 
anything. No doubt it had been wrong and foolish 
of him. But he never could deny her anything. 

Only he himself knew why this was so — only 
he, and one other, who also loved Victoria better 
than anything else on earth. She, Dindaor Payne, 
knew why this was so. 

She knew, as he did, that Victoria was, strangely 
enough, almost the living image, if an image not 
nearly so beautiful, of the woman whom George 
Leathley had loved in the early flush of his manhood 
— the cousin who loved him, and who had drooped 
and died, the doctors said, of decline ; her sister 
Dora knew , of grief and disappointment when 
George Leathley brought the wife whom his mother 
had chosen for him home to Eastaston. 

That was all. But the cousin lying in her grave 
had never been supplanted in George Leathley’s heart. 

Death had given her that gift, such as it was. 
Death, in truth, does this far oftener than life. 

It is easier by far to slay love with life than 
to slay it with death. By far — by far ! Whom 
the gods love die young. Ah, yes, before the 

19 


290 


A NEW NOTE. 


burden and heat of life’s long day has worn out 
love, and tarnished, and soiled, and slain it. 

Mr. Leathley sighed again once or twice, heavily. 
Then he glanced at the clock, took out his watch, 
and compared both. 

He must go down to the House ; in fact, he should 
have been there now — before now. He found he had 
no further time to lose. But when he got down to 
the House, he found that too much time had been 
lost already. He met a colleague in the lobby— the 
lobby was very excited just then. His colleague 
was excited also, and angry ; very angry with Mr. 
Leathley, when he caught sight of him. There had 
just been a division, a most important division ; 
indeed, there were any number of important divisions 
going on in those hot, glorious summer days, in that 
session which few Members will ever forget. “Yes, 
a division ! ” shouted Mr. Leathley’s angry colleague 
hurriedly ; and he, Leathley, was late — the colleague 
very nearly added, “ of course.” The poor colleague 
was just then past even good manners. Indeed, good 
manners and — Ireland don’t, somehow, seem to lie 
down, like the kid and the bear, together, in the 
House of Commons. 

Mr. Leathley passed his hands once more over his 
tired eyes ; altogether, it had not been a pleasant 
day. He had been grieved, annoyed, disappointed. 
He had been rudely upbraided by his eldest son, 
and bitterly reproached by his favourite daughter. 
Barely veiled contempt, and quite unveiled anger, 
had welcomed his approach to his duties in the 
government of England — no, Ireland. It was hard 
on a man of his age, who only wanted to live at 
peace with all men — and women. 


A NEW NOTE. 


291 


Mr. Leathley shook his head despairingly. 

“ God bless my soul ! ” he said to himself, with a 
certain bewilderment, “ it’s a very angry world 
to-day.” 

A very angry world indeed. Even Ada Keppel, 
whose temper, according to her husband's account, 
was fast dye, warranted not to come off in the wear 
— even Ada Keppel looked something like an angry 
woman as she faced her husband. 

“ It is too disgusting ! It is horrible, odious, re- 
volting. Conway , can't you speak?” 

“ Well, I can,” returned that gentleman imperturb- 
ably. “ Certainly I can ; and I will, if you think it is 
worth while.” 

Mrs. Conway Keppel's fair, crinkly head tossed 
itself up impatiently. 

“ Oh ” — she actually stamped her foot — “ I should 
like to shake her ! Oh, I should ! A woman of her 
age, too ! And she always talked so beautifully and 
so sensibly ! You can't think how sensibly, Conway. 
Oh, you needn't laugh ! It's very teasing and horrid 
of you to laugh. But she always did, about, about 
— those sort of things. And now ! Oh, Conway, how 
can she be such a goose ! One would think she’d 
have a little common-sense, ordinary common-sense ! ” 

Mr.. Keppel looked at his wife with a bland smile. 

“ My darling child,” he said suavely, “ that's where 
you make the mistake. Ordinary common-sense 
cannot take up its abode in the dwelling-places of 
the Arts. Victoria is a great artist. We are all 
immensely proud of Victoria, or we ought to be ; 
but at the same time, we cannot add one cubit to 
her stature. I mean, we cannot either give her, or 
expect from her, wh^t she has not She has geniijs 


292 A NEW NOTE. 

— more than a touch of genius. She could not, in the 
very nature of things, have ordinary common-sense. 
Put it out of your head, once for all, that any such 
thing is to be expected of her. Will you, can you 
tell me of any great musician or artist who ever had 
common-sense? You won’t, for you can’t. IPs a 
great pity, you say ? My dear, we needn’t go into 
that . The fact is enough. In this world one can’t 
have everything. In fact, you can’t have one single 
supremely good thing unless you pay for it. That 
is the one immutable law of being — payment for value 
received. A great artistic gift is, no doubt, a glorious 
thing ; only it must be paid for. Its owner must 
pay for it, and those who enjoy its fruits must pay 
for them. Well, here it comes. We have Victoria. 
She has her great gift for music ; but neither of us 
can get common-sense from the same source. Oh 
no. Common-sense is the guerdon of mediocrity — 
mediocrity, which nobody wants, and we all despise ; 
mediocrity, which, all the same, is so comfortable, 
and so prosperous, and so — common-sensible. Happy 
mediocrity ! Who would take genius and misery in 
exchange for you ? My dear Ada, mediocrity is the 
one thoroughly satisfactory and thoroughly satisfied 
thing in this world. Think of it ! It never goes out 
of its mind, or off its head, or down on its knees ; 
it never breaks its heart nor its fortunes ; not at all. 
It lives respected and dies lamented, in its bed 
generally, of — repletion. My child, there’s nothing 
for nothing in this world, not even genius. You 
can't get the radiant glory of genius and, at the 
same time, from the same source, the solid comforts 
of mediocrity." 

He was silent? and his wife was silent, for some 


A NEW NOTE. 


293 


minutes. Presently he smiled, and hummed a tune. 

“What are you thinking of?” inquired Ada, who 
knew his methods. 

“ The Dis-improvement of the Human Race,” he 
returned reflectively — “The Dis-improvement of the 
Human Race. It seems to me that, on the whole, we 
may believe in the dis-improvement of the human 
race. It is a grateful prospect, /shall start Loevio 
and Victoria as the pioneers. Cheer up, Ada ! 
Divest your mind of petty desires. Think of the 
human race and its dis-improvement. Think — of — 
the pioneers. Hum ! — I should like to see Aunt 
Doll.” 

Poor Aunt Doll ! When it all got down to her 
in the big, lonely house at Farmley, she laid down 
her knitting-needles, and the scarlet serpentine gar- 
ters trailed in the dust, and she felt herself beaten 
— owned herself beaten. It is a hard thing to have 
to own yourself beaten at seventy years old ; but 
then, what is one old woman against the world ? 
What is one old woman against youth and strength, 
and its wisdom and its ways? against all the swift 
tide of to-day ? Yesterday cannot compete with to- 
day. Yesterday has no shadow of right over to-day. 
To-day is to-day; splendid and strong. Yesterday 
is — only yesterday; forgotten, done with, put away 
for ever. 

Slow tears, strong tears, hard, hard tears of age, 
dropped on the shining knitting-needles, and left a 
stain of yellow rust. Tears — so easy in youth, so 
fresh, so flowing — open the sluice-gates and let them 
forth. See the rush of the soft water ; the bright 
freshness which succeeds the rippling bath ; the 


2 94 


A NEW NOTE, 


sunshine once more, after the rain ! But the tears of 
age, ah ! they are hard ; they are few, indeed and 
evil ; there is no freshness after their scalding passage. 
None, none — in the days when the sunshine returns 
not after the rain ! 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


VICTORIA gave herself up to the contemplation of 
her own happiness. 

For she was happy. 

She cast aside every doubt ; she looked away 
steadily from every shadow which her position 
inevitably entailed ; she gazed only, with dazzled 
eyes, up to the great sun of her own exceeding 
happiness. 

Heaven was upon earth, or earth had been 
caught up to heaven, with Victoria ; and all this 
was because she was going to do a mad thing, the 
world said ; a mad thing, her friends said ; a thing 
that was worse than madness, those who loved 
her best declared loudly. 

Nevertheless, she was going to do it. 

And she was happy, because she was a woman 
— a woman in love. 

Her father put before her plainly the magnitude 
of the risk. She admitted it frankly — at least, she 
admitted frankly that in any case except her own 
the justice of his apprehensions would be un- 
answerable ; but not in her case. She was a woman 
in love. What can any man say that will carry 
-eason to a woman in love ? 

Mr. Leathley did all he could. But Loevio was 
ready for him, and did all he could. And Loevio 
was able to do a good deal. So much, in fact, 
293 


296 


A NEW NOTE. 


that Mr. Leathley’s misgivings were silenced, at 
any rate. Besides, Loevio had Victoria to uphold 
him, and Victoria was a host in herself — certainly 
where her father was concerned. 

Loevio, too, was very frank. Admirably, charm- 
ingly frank, with Victoria, with her father, with 
them all ; only none of them, except Victoria and 
her father, would even give him a hearing. 

Indeed, under very trying circumstances Loevio 
behaved beautifully. But Loevio was no fool. The 
better he behaved, the more Victoria loved him ; 
the greater the slights which her brothers and 
sisters put upon him, the greater were her en- 
deavours, by every device of love, to do him honour. 
So Loevio let himself be slighted all day long. 
Perhaps he even courted such attentions, in order 
that Victoria’s love for him might seek to atone 
for them. 

He told her all about himself ; of his father, who, 
in spite of his Italian name and parentage, had 
been an Englishman, born in England ; of his 
mother, who was dead ; of his own position, alone 
— since his parents’ death — in the world. Ap- 
parently he had no brothers or sisters, no near 
relations. 

He told them all this. He told them of his 
poverty, of his early struggles, of his loneliness ; 
and something like tears stood in his beautiful 
blue eyes. 

But he was rich now, he was famous now, he 
had troops of friends now, and it was by his own 
doing. He didn’t say this certainly, but somehow 
this was the impression which his boyish frankness left 
on their minds ; on Victoria’s mind, especially. She 


A NEW NOTE. 


29 1 


came to look upon him as a miracle of persevering 
industry, of noble endeavour, of patient endurance, 
of triumphant well-doing. His life, in her eyes, 
was a romance, his career a lyric poem. 

No wonder Annesley was forgotten ! — Jerry 
Annesley, whose life had assuredly not been in the 
least a romance, and who had had no career what- 
ever. No wonder! How can the heart of woman 
resist a life which is a romance, a career which is 
a lyric poem ? 

The heart of woman cannot resist such things as 
these. And Victoria was a woman — a woman in love. 

Love accounts for all things. 

No doubt, love was accountable for the fact that 
the month of August still found Victoria at Rutland 
Gardens. Persons of Victoria’s sort are not, as a 
rule, to be found in Rutland Gardens in the middle 
of the month of August. 

It is possible that filial affection kept her there 
— a filial desire to relieve the enforced tedium of a 
weary legislator’s detention in the -land of bricks 
and mortar and sanitary science — a weary legislator, 
tied and bound throughout those sweltering days 
by the chain of much-wronged Ireland. It may 
have been so. 

Beyond this there was, indeed, no apparent reason 
why Victoria should bake herself to a pie-crust 
with legislators at St. Stephen’s. It was not likely 
that even the woes of Ireland would necessitate, at 
present, at all events, female legislation. In those 
hot, hot days of late summer, when strong young 
legislators fell off their seats from the heat, and 
even cabinet ministers rose in revolt — against waist- 
coats and chimney-pot hats — and covered their 


298 


A NEW NOTE. 


heads with white straw, and their shirt-fronts with 
— nothing at all ; when the thermometer stood at 
eighty-five in the shade, and at anything else you 
like — even boiling-point — in the sun, and in the 
House of Commons — specially in the House of 
Commons ; — there was no reason, apparently, why 
Victoria, to whom the world was, according to the 
newspapers, looking for a new opera, should not 
have been writing it for the world, in, for instance, 
that cool, delicious avenue of beeches at Eastaston, 
where the whispering leaves might murmur soft 
nothings in her listening ears, and keep the sun 
from pouring down upon her too eagerly, as he 
shone forth in his might. No reason, apparently. 
Only that the stars of the theatrical firmament, 
and of the other firmaments whose scheme of 
existence is to amuse, had taken pity on the 
legislators whose scheme of existence is to do 
good by stealth — no, by Act of Parliament — and 
hope to find it fame, and were all here in town, 
singing, and acting, and making merry, even with 
the temperature at boiling-point — in the House of 
Commons. 

Loevio was still in town ; that was all. 

Victoria was in Rutland Gardens ; that was 
all. 

Nevertheless, in Victoria's little boudoir, although 
it was nearly at the top of a house in Rutland 
Gardens, in the month of August, one might be 
in a worse place. Possibly Victoria thought so 
herself, as she lay on the sofa, with a book, which 
she was not reading, in her hand, with a cup of 
tea at her elbow, with the windows wide open, 
with lots of fresh roses everywhere in the room 


A NEW NOTE. 


299 


and with the contemplation of her own feelings 
to afford the pastime of an idle moment. At the 
moment she was indeed dreamily conscious of the 
happiness of her love for Loevio, of the extreme 
gratification which the blended sweetness of different 
sorts of roses convey to the human nostril, and 
the keen joy which the brain of the creative artist 
experiences when it finds itself shaping out new 
and powerful images, which will find a place presently 
in certain definite forms of concrete beauty. 

In plain English, to lie on a comfortable sofa, 
in a cool room, fragrant with fresh roses ; to have 
a cup of tea, and no necessity to think or do 
anything disagreeable ; is a pleasant interlude 
certainly in the feminine path of progress from the 
cradle to the grave. 

The door of the pretty, cool, rose-scented room 
opened. In the doorway appeared the form of 
Parker, Victoria’s maid. 

“ If you please, m’m,” said Parker, advancing into 
the room, “a person desires to see you.’' 

Victoria frowned. 

“ Persons ” were now a daily experience, more 
wearying than gratifying. These persons were of 
many descriptions — persons, for example, who had 
composed music ; persons, again, who were going 
to compose music ; persons who would have liked 
to compose music ; persons who, Victoria more than 
once wished, would compose themselves. Then 
there were other persons — those who played on all 
sorts of musical instruments ; who played the cornet, 
flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all 
kinds (all kinds, truly, in every sense) of music. 
These persons usually wanted to play in a band 


3o6 


A NEW NOTfe. 


in some theatre, in any band, in any theatre — 
anywhere, in fact. Some of the persons were in- 
definite in their desires, or rather, indefinitely 
definite in their desires, as the persons who merely 
wished for something to do. While there were, 
on the contrary, persons whose desires had no 
definition at all, who did not wish for anything 
to do, or to do anything. There were, too, the 
persons who wanted advice. And, last of all, there 
were the persons who wanted — but stay, they all 
wanted — money. 

“ What sort of person ? ” asked Victoria, although 
she should have known better by this time. 

Parker’s features were guilty of a suppressed sniff. 
Her eyes fastened themselves abstractedly on an 
antique viol standing up in the corner facing her. 

“ Mr. Duckett said, if you please, m’m, that she 
is — just — a person, m’m.” 

Parker coughed drily. A faint, respectful cough. 

“ Tell Duckett to show her up,” said Victoria 
after a barely perceptible moment of hesitation. 

Parker closed the door on her own respectable 
presence, and Victoria took her feet off the sofa, 
and assumed an attitude more formal and less 
comfortable. 

“This is another of the failures, I suppose, come 
to pour out her tale of woe. I am superstitious 
enough to feel convinced that I ought to listen ; 
that it is only fair that I should listen and give 
comfort, if I can. I might so easily have been a 
failure myself. So easily ! But — oh, good heavens ! 
— fancy going about and saying sol” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


The door opened again. This time to admit the 
portly and respectful form of Duckett, and the 
person whom he ushered in with bland and silent 
condescension. 

Victoria, looking the new-comer over from head 
to foot in one swift sweep of the eye, realised 
immediately that the vocabulary of the English 
language could yield no combination of words, 
descriptive or forcible, to more accurately define 
her visitor than that which the acute experience 
of Duckett had furnished. 

“ Won't you sit down ? ” Victoria, as she spoke, 
indicated a chair close at hand, and sat a little 
more upright herself in the corner of the sofa. 
She had not risen. 

The visitor seated hersell somewhat awkwardly. 
Her equilibrium was, in fact, slightly shaken, partly 
by the demeanour of Duckett, which was totally 
a novelty, and correspondingly embarrassing, and 
partly by her entrance. She had never, indeed, in 
her life been in any place at all like this little cool, 
flower-fragrant room, even though, afterwards, she 
came to the conclusion that there was nothing very 
remarkable about it at all ; nor had she ever spoken 
to any one quite like the owner of the room. For 
a moment she could only stare at Victoria, thinking, 
meantime, that a simple, graceful dress of a pale 

30X 


302 


A NEW NOTE 


shade of mauve, and with a good deal of lace 
on it, would make any woman look well, even if 
the cotton stuff of which it was made could be got 
for tenpence-halfpenny the yard, any day, and 
although the dress itself was patently fresh from 
the wash-tub. 

Victoria’s rapid, clear accents went on speaking. 

“ If you would please say what it is you wish to 
see me for, as” (with a glance at a little clock on 
the corner of a cabinet book-case) “ I am afraid 
I have not very much time to spare.” 

The girl whom she addressed looked at her for 
a minute in silence. She was, indeed, more than 
a girl ; but she scarcely looked more at first sight, 
although deliberate scrutiny revealed faint lines 
about her mouth, and under her eyes, which be- 
tokened that, whatever her years might be, she had 
lived long enough to be pretty well worn by life 
and its burdens. Victoria, looking at her, thought 
she was not a bad specimen of the London girl of 
her class, which was distinctly that of the very 
lower middle. She did not look bold, or rude, 
or aggressive in any way. Her dress was a fairly 
accurate, if a cheap copy of that style of costume 
which the patrons of Redfern like to wear on four 
occasions out of six. It wanted, it is true, the 
perfection of neatness, and the exquisiteness of 
flawless cleanliness which, in Redfern’s patrons, 
would have been everywhere present ; nor would 
the latter have substituted a pink ribbon bow at 
the collar for the regulation well-tied tie, or worn 
grey silk gloves in preference to Suede or kid. But 
these, after all, were trifling divergencies ; only 
they were just the trifles which made all the difference. 


A NEW NOTE. 


303 


Nevertheless, Victoria, withdrawing her eyes from 
the grey silk gloves and the pink ribbon bow to 
the face above, thought what a pretty face it must 
have been ten years ago. She could fancy what 
a delicate rose-tinge must have been in the cheeks 
that were quite worn aad faded now, and how 
the soft, childish radiance of the still lustrous 
brown eyes, which just matched the thick 
waves of clustering brown hair, must have com- 
pleted the beauty of a face not even now unat- 
tractive. 

Victoria smiled into the shy brown eyes reas- 
suringly. They had a wistful look that touched 
her. They seemed to say that their owner had 
passed the days of her best happiness. Victoria, 
in the full tide of her happiness, felt a pang of 
regret at the remembrance of how sad a world 
it is, after all. Just then she would have liked 
every one to be as happy as herself. 

She smiled reassuringly again. So much so, that 
her visitor found her voice at last. 

“I — 1 wanted to see you,” she began hesitatingly; 
“you — you were very good to my poor sister.” 

Victoria had been correct in her estimate. Her 
visitor, when she spoke, was unmistakably a Lon- 
doner. Her voice and accent were gentle and 
musical ; when she spoke further her “ h’s ” were 
not super- abundant, anyhow ; but her “ a’s ” had 
clearly the horrid “ i ” sound, which, without anything 
else, stamped the speaker and her class hopelessly. 

“You were so good to my poor sister,” she 
continued gently — “ Annie Merks.” 

Victoria's face changed. An expression of real 
interest flashed over it. 


304 


A NEW NOTE. 


“ Annie Merks,” she exclaimed quickly. “ You are 
Annie Merks’ sister. Ah, poor thing, I assure you I 
was quite, quite grieved when I heard of her death. 
It was so sad — so awful ! I was at Milan just then.” 

“You were very kind,” returned her visitor, in 
a low tone ; “ you were very, very kind. She 
talked a lot about you. It was ‘ Miss Leathley, 
Miss Leathley/ always with her. And she was so 
set on being a great singer some day ! ” 

“ But she would have been, you know,” said 
Victoria eagerly ; “ her voice was really superb ! 
Oh, I was so sorry. It was terrible ! ” 

She paused suddenly. Her mind recalled the 
poor dead girl — the girl who had been only a 
village schoolmistress, but who had a splendid 
career in her magnificent voice, put, as it were, 
into her hand, only to be snatched away before 
any good thing could come of it, by the horrible 
accident of five minutes. A little chill struck on 
Victoria’s heart. 

“ And I,” she thought, “ I have everything!' 

“ So you,” she said, looking again fixedly at the 
face opposite to her, “ you are Annie Merks’ sister ? 
Yes, you are like her — in some respects.” 

She did not add — but she thought it, all the 
same — that the living sister’s face was a much prettier 
one than that of the dead sister’s had been. She 
looked at the living face again, and added kindly, — 
“What can I do for you? We were all at 
Eastaston very fond of your sister ; and the children 
in the school adored her. I assure you the fame 
of her voice is quite a tradition in the village. 
Were you with her when she died?” 

The other’s face flushed. 


A NEW NOTE. 305 

“No, miss,” she said hurriedly. “I — I — was not 
— able — to be there” 

“ Indeed ! ” Victoria’s face, as she uttered the 
word, was full of sympathy. “ But your mother was 
with her? I remember how terribly I pitied your 
mother when I heard of it. You see, I was abroad 
all that year, or I should have so much liked to 
have seen her. Your mother — er — is she alive?” 

“ Oh — yes — she’s alive.” 

“ And you ? ” said Victoria. “ Do you teach, 
or ?” 

She stopped abruptly, and bit her lip, with a 
slight sensation of amusement at her own embar- 
rassment. Somehow — precisely how she could not 
have explained — but somehow, in some mysterious 
fashion, she seemed to become aware that the slight, 
worn-looking woman sitting opposite to her, was 
not an unmarried girl. 

The latter’s face turned white. 

“ I,” she began huskily — “ I .” She paused, 

and stirred helplessly in her chair. She looked at 
Victoria once more — a long, intent, apologetic gaze. 
Evidently Victoria’s face reassured yet again, 

“ Miss Leathley ! ” she exclaimed quickly, after 
the slight pause, “ Miss Leathley, you won’t be 
angry with me — will you, miss ? But I came to 
you because — I’m in trouble.” 

She twisted her fingers in their grey silk gloves 
as she spoke, one in and out of the other, in the 
extreme of nervous excitement. 

Victoria smiled kindly again ; but all the same 
she thought it well to say at once, — 

“ I must tell you that I never give money. I 
make that rule, except under certain circumstances,” 

3Q 


306 


A NEW NOTE. 


The expression on her visitor’s face, as she said 
it, convinced Victoria that her first impression had 
been a right one ; whatever this woman had come 
for, she had not come for money. 

‘/ don’t want money, Miss Leathley,” she said, 
with as much absolute composure as if she lived 
in the next house. Her face flushed the next 
moment. She seemed at a loss how to proceed 
farther. Victoria came to her rescue. 

“ Won’t you tell me your trouble ? ” she said 
gently. Her own happiness made her feel very 
gently towards any trouble. “ Perhaps I may be 
able to advise you, or to help you.” 

The other raised her eyes as Victoria spoke, and 
Victoria thought she saw tears shining in them. 

“ You can help me, Miss Leathley,” she murmured ; 
“only — you — won’t be angry with me? I will tell 
you how it is.” 

Victoria smiled again, reassuringly, and leaned 
back against the end of the sofa. Resting one elbow 
on the cushions, her hand, lying on her breast, 
closed tenderly over a tiny gold heart, set with 
pearls, one of Loevio’s first gifts to her, and which 
hung round her neck by a fine gold chain. Her 
eyes watched her visitor’s face closely. 

She was very sorry for the latter, but she wished 
all the same that she would not keep on biting 
the fingers of her grey silk gloves one after the 
other in her embarrassment. 

“ I was a fool, miss,” she began again huskily — 
“an awful fool, and I’m, I’m — a fool still. But — 
when my sister Annie went to your school, I was 
married. I was two years married then.” 

Victoria smiled faintly. She didn’t seem to see 


A NEW NOTE. 


307 


what this was to lead to. But the trouble was patent 
in the woman’s face, and so she waited to hear 
more. 

“ Bad husband, I suppose ? ” she said to herself. 

The thought had scarcely formulated itself, when 
the other’s next words corroborated it. 

“Two years,” she repeated. “ Two years of horror 
and misery. I hated him,” she continued passion- 
ately ; “ but he was very well off, and they talked me 
into it. They talked, and persuaded, and never let 
me alone. I wonder how many wretched, miserable 
creatures are persuaded and over-persuaded into — 
hell y hell upon earth. We, my mother I mean, kept 
an eating-house in the Mile End Road — it’s well 
known ; Swardills and Merks, on the left-hand side ; 
“ Swardills ” it’s generally called — and he was a 
traveller, a commercial traveller ; he travelled for a 
big furniture house, and he was a cousin, distantly, 
of my mother’s. I never liked him, because I — liked 
somebody else. That was what made it so hard. 
I liked somebody else. But he was away, out of 
London altogether, and at home they kept per- 
suading me and never stopped. And, besides, I 
was a bit hurt that the one I did care for had gone 
away just without saying a word, though we’d always 
been such friends — and — sometimes I thought we’d 
be something more. And I gave in.” 

She looked at Victoria’s face ; but she found, in 
the steady gaze of the small, dark eyes, something 
which reassured her. 

“ Miss Leathley,” she said again impulsively, “ he 
was very bad to me. He had the horriblest temper 
you could ever know. And he was so cunning, he 
could keep his temper down long enough; and 


3°8 


A NEW NOTE. 


be as sweet as sugar when he pleased. He took 
my mother and all of them in. None of us ever 
thought, till after I married him, that he had that 
temper. Til say that for mother. But she was too 
eager for the wedding. He’d great wages, and he 
was a clever business man, and he always told mother 
he’d set up for himself one day soon. She was too 
eager ; too eager. Dear heaven, ye’d think women — 
mothers — with all they know, ’ud hate to see their 
daughters given to any man. They don’t, anyhow, 
and my mother, even when she found ’Enery out, 
she was always preachin’ patience to me. Patience — 
with a fiend like that ! He was a fiend. No one but 
himself ’ud think of the things he’d do. He was 
that tyrannical, miss, and he hadn’t a heart in his 
breast, that man ! I was very ill after I was married — 
very ill — from the hard treatment he gave me. He’d 
keep me shut up for days and days doin’ house-work 
There was months he wouldn’t keep a servant. And 
I was ill and weak, miss, and not able to stand on 
my feet, and I’d never been used to house-work — 
scrubbing and suchlike. I was only just out o’ 
school when I married. I hated him. I nearly went 
mad, and sometimes when he’d be away travellin’ 
he’d drink a good deal, and it didn’t improve his 
temper. Then ” 

She paused ; her face turned paler. 

“ I won’t keep you long, Miss Leathley, but I want 
you to understand. And then you won’t be so angry 
with me. . . . The other came back to London — the 
one, the man I’d always cared for. And — the worst 
of it was — that he wouldn’t keep away from me. I 
did my best to keep him away ; but it was no use. 
He was very quick and clever, and he soon saw what 


A NEW NOTE. 


309 


'Enery was, and what he didn't see he found out. 
He was very clever ; there was nothing he couldn't 
find out. And he was very kind-hearted, the kindest- 
hearted man could be — in some ways — and he said 
he'd go mad to see what my life was. He was always 
telling me that, always. He used to come — when 
'Enery was away — and — from the time almost that 
he came first, to the end — he never was done trying 
to persuade me to — leave — my 'usband." 

Her voice sank lower. She spoke monotonously 
now. 

“ I know it was wrong, miss — I know it was — to 
listen to him, but — he’d never stop, and I — cared for 
him. One time he stopped coming altogether for 
weeks. I don’t know what I did. I was nearly out 
of my mind, thinking he was so offended because I 
wouldn’t listen to him, he’d never come again. And 
he was all the comfort I had in life, miss ; and I was 
weak and ill, and I'd lost my baby. I'd to thank 
'Enery for that. And when he did come again I — told 
him I'd do anything he wished. He was nearly beside 
himself with delight. And he swore he’d marry me 
when 'Enery got a divorce. He said 'Enery'd get 
a divorce fast enough, because 'Enery used to be 
castin' in my teeth some rich widder he said was dyin' 
about him, so " 

She paused again. 

Victoria, still watching her steadily, pitied her ; yet 
involuntarily, when she spoke, her voice was several 
degrees colder. 

“ Was there nobody who could have helped you ? ” 
she said, breaking the silence. “No friend or clergy- 
man?” 

The woman looked at her. 


3io 


A NEW NOTE. 


“ Miss Leathley,” she said quickly, and there 
was a touch of dreary sarcasm in the words, “ there’s 
no good going to friends or clergymen when your 
life’s not worth living, and when your heart’s set 
on something. I didn’t want any one to tell me 
it was wrong. I knew all that well enough. I knew 
my mother’d shut her door on me to the last day 
of my life. I knew it. But I knew ’Enery. My 
God, I knew ’Enery ! Clergyman ! Could any 
clergyman change ’Enery’s temper? — I went away 
with him, Miss Leathley — with the man I cared 
for. He was very good to me — very good to me. 
It was like heaven upon earth being with him. And 
he was so sweet-tempered and easy-going ! I’d have 
died for him, he was so sweet-tempered. He was well 
off, too ; his father had been a pork -butcher, and 
had left him five thousand pounds or more. He 
was his only son. So we were very comfortable.” 

“ And your husband ? ” said Victoria, at this point. 

The girl, facing her, smiled bitterly. 

“ Oh, he married the rich widder, and she's led 
him a life ! He was an awful coward, ’Enery, for all 
his tyrannical temper, and she had a temper that 
frightened the life out of him. If I could have 
done that I’d have had a better life with him.” 

Involuntarily Victoria smiled with amusement. 
The speaker looked so manifestly incapable of 
frightening even a mouse. She smiled again, with 
less coldness, too, at her visitor. 

“ Then of course there was a divorce ? ” she said 
at once. 

“ Yes,” said the other hurriedly. 

“And your second husband?” continued Victoria. 
“ He was a good husband, you say ? ” 


N 


A NEW NOTE. 


3 ” 


She said it half carelessly. It seemed to her 
that this person was relating a sad, but extremely 
commonplace story, without, so far as could be 
seen, any definite reason why she, Victoria Leathley, 
should be made the recipient of it. 

There was a pause. 

“ Miss Leathley ” — the speaker’s voice, either from 
fear, or from resistless determination, was intensely 
sharpened — “ Miss Leathley — that — that is the 
trouble. That’s why I came to you. He — he didn’t 
— wouldn’t marry me, after all.” 

“ Oh ! ” 

The monosyllable, uttered by Victoria, perhaps 
involuntarily, contained an ominous intonation. She 
made, perhaps involuntarily, also, a slight, expressive 
movement of repugnance. 

The face of the other flushed, and turned pale. 

“ Oh, wait ! ” she cried. “ Wait ! Let me tell you 
all ! Let me tell you — all ! ” 

She leaned forward as she said it, and stretched 
out her hand imploringly. 

Victoria’s face was scarcely encouraging. Yet 
there was something so foreign to blatant and un- 
ashamed wrongdoing in the whole appearance and 
demeanour of this strange person, that, in spite 
of herself, she was moved. She said nothing, but 
sat very still, and her eyes never left the other’s 
face. 

“ Let me tell you,” whispered the latter. Her 
voice had sunk again almost to a whisper. “ He 
said he would — but — after the divorce, he kept — 
putting me off. First he said we’d have to wait 
a bit for the lawyers, or something. 1 don’t know. 
But I begged and prayed him. I’d have left him 


312 


A NEW NOTE. 


but I couldn’t ” — her face flushed scarlet — “ I 
couldn’t then ; but I prayed him on my knees — 
because — of — the child. He said he would, and 
he would, but he didn’t. And then, one day, my 
mother came to see me. It was just after ’Enery 
married the widder. My mother’d been very hard 
on me, but now, she said, she’d forgive us both, 
as we’d been married and had the divorce and all. 
Miss Leathley ” — her head sank lower — “ I told her 
we were married, and that I’d got the best of 
husbands, and that there was nothing he wouldn’t 
do for me, and no end to his goodness — which 
there wasn’t — only the one thing ; and we made it 
up, mother and I, and them all. When I told him, 
and begged and prayed him to make it true, he 
laughed and laughed, and he kissed me, and said 
it was the best joke he ever knew to do the old 
lady — there’s never been too much love lost between 
him and mother — and that he'd never undeceive 
her, and that I was the cleverest little girl in the 
world. Every time I’d speak to him, he’d laugh. 
I used to fret, but you couldn't be angry with him. 
He was so gentle, and so sweet-tempered, and he’d 
take such care of me ! Even mother used to make 
fun of the care he took of me. But talk to him 
of anything else, it was no use. I had to give it 
up. And — after — the first child was born, it seemed 
no use — so I — said no more. But he was always 
good to me, and my mother, or one of them, never 
knew. Never to this day ! ” 

Victoria felt and looked shocked and perplexed. 

“ They all were satisfied, and I kept it up, and so 
did he. And they’re as proud of him now as can 
be — as proud as can be, and my mother— most 


a new Note. 


3*3 


of all. There’s — none of her grandchildren — can 
rightly please her — only mine. But — now — now — 
after all these years — he’s going to leave me — 
Miss Leathley — he’s wanting to get married ; he’s 
going to get married, and I — and my mother — and 
my children ” 

Victoria looked exceedingly distressed. She 
knew that it was her duty to point out the in- 
evitable consequences of sin and deception ; but 
with that white, anguished face looking at her, she 
was powerless to do more than look distressed, 
and say, — 

“ I am very sorry indeed for your trouble. But 
I fear I cannot ” 

She stopped. Something in the wild anguish of 
the brown eyes arrested her. 

“ What can / do ? ” she said helplessly. 

There was a sudden, strained silence — a strange, 
unnatural moment of silence. 

Victoria’s visitor, leaning more forward in her 
chair, covered her face with her hands. 

“ Miss Leathley ” — the words, as they passed her 
lips, were nearly inarticulate — “I — I — Miss Leathley.” 

She let her hands fall down from her face. Her 
eyes, faltering, shrinking, reminding Victoria of a 
dog’s which feared the lash, fixed themselves on the 
proud, delicate, pallid face. 

“ He wants — to — marry — and he isn’t — in my rank 
of — life — now. He’s a great — man — and I — and 
there’s — a lady ” 

The eyes of the two women facing one another 
so closely, looked each into the other’s. There was 
another second — only one second — of silence, horrible, 
intense silence. Only one short second ; but a lifetime 




A new Note. 


to one — a lifetime wherein agony accumulated, piled 
itself up, layer over layer. One second — only one — 
while the eyes of the two women looked each into 
the other’s. 

Victoria stood up. 

“ Don’t,” she cried hoarsely, almost beneath her 
breath, “ don’t — tell me — any more.” 

She trembled in every limb, and recoiled with 
sudden aversion, incapable of disguise, from the 
shrinking creature huddled up on the chair before her. 

A wild whirl of emotion and anger swept over 
her a moment later. 

“ How dare you ! ” she said breathlessly, and her 
face grew whiter with anger. “ How dare you come 
here to me with this infamous story ! ” Her hand, 
clasping the gold heart, closed upon it with the 
strength of pure anger, and the fragile chain 
snapped and broke. Chain and pendant fell loose 
from her neck. 

The creature huddled up on the chair stretched 
out her hands imploringly. 

“ Miss Leathley, don’t look like that. It’s true, 
before God, every word ! Ah, you think I’ve no 
right to speak — to speak to you , least of all. But 
if he marries, I’m ruined — I and my children. And 
I could never bear the shame of it now, I can’t — 
I can't .” The words were like so many notes of 
anguish wrung from her white lips. 

Victoria’s face hardened. Her lips curled. 

“ Had you thought of all that sooner,” she said icily, 
“ you would have been wiser , to say the least of it.” 

The other panted, and blushed rosy red. 

“ I — I — loved him,” she gasped faintly. “ He 
can make any one love him.” 


A NEW NOTE. 31$ 

Victoria grew deadly white. Her eyes flashed. 

“ Have the goodness to leave this room, ,, she 
said quickly, “ and the house. Go ! ” 

“ Miss Leathley, don’t be angry. Ah, listen, 
listen ! I was mad to come, but when he first 
told me what he thought of doing I nearly went 
mad. I did go mad. And he won’t come near 

to me now. And my mother is angry ; she’s been 

going on for a long time — ever since he got to be 
so famous as a singer, and took the foreign name 
altogether, and lived at the West End ; she’s been 
displeased at his not having me and the children 
with him, and I’ve tried to put her off. But now, 

what can I do ? It’ll kill me ! ” She wailed out 

the words helplessly, feebly. “ It’ll kill me ! But 
— when I — found out it was you — Miss Leathley — 
you — might have struck me without my feeling it. 
You that are out of his rank, miles out of his 
rank ! And he’s so proud of that. He’s nearly 
boasted of it to me. He can’t keep in the pride 
sometimes.” 

Victoria turned away sharply. She felt she must 
hide the anguish of her face somehow. She could 
not speak. 

“ I’m sorry,” pursued the other. “ I’m sorry, I’m 
sorry ! But, think of me ; and — my children, my 
children ! I nearly went mad, but I thought Miss 
Leathley, that Annie loved, would help me, and I 
said I’d tell her all. And it would be a sin not 
to tell you, to let you be deceived, and tricked ; to 
let you ” 

Victoria turned her face once more to the 
speaker. She raised her hand with a certain swift 
gesture of authority. 


316 


A NEW NOTE. 


“ Stop,” she said quickly ; and the other did stop 
speaking instantly. 

Victoria, standing up, looked down in the worn, 
white face. Her own eyelids fluttered faintly — a 
curious, insolent flutter, feminine and indescribable. 
Nothing more insulting in its way can be conceived. 

“You want money,” she said, almost in her 
usual clear, cold accents. “ Persons who force their 
way with stories such as yours require to be dealt 
with by proper authority. You want money; you 
will get none from me. On the contrary, I shall 
take care to prevent anything of this kind 
recurring.” 

And while she said it Victoria knew that the 
woman gazing up at her did not want money. 
She knew it. Ah, God, she knew it! 

The person she addressed stood up. The colour 
rose and flooded her cheeks. Something akin to 
dignity was reflected in face and figure. 

“ I do not want money,” she said quietly, very 
quietly ; “ and I shall not trouble you again, Miss 
Leathley. What I have said is true. Do you 
wish to know if what I have told you is true ? 
You can easily do so. Oh, if it were not true, if 
it were not true, would I be here ? ” 

Her voice broke suddenly. She covered her 
face with her hands, and burst into tears. 

“Miss Leathley,” she cried once more, looking 
into the dark, cold eyes, “what am I to do? 
Think of me ! Think of what it will be to me ! 
My mother ! It will break her heart ! She is not a 
young woman, and she has had a great deal of 
trouble, and this will kill her. My God, have pity 
— on me, Miss Leathley 1 ” 


A NEW NOTE. 


317 


Victoria moved impatiently. She felt that she 
hated this woman ; and yet the voice touched her. 

A lump rose in her throat. Something choked 
her utterance. The scalding tears rose to her 
own eyelids. 

She sank back against the sofa. A sensation of 
physical weakness and faintness for a moment over- 
powered her. The horror of it all and of her own 
position was only beginning to make its way to 
her brain. Only beginning, but beginning, truly. 
Yet her heart clung to its idol. 

“ It is a lie,” she said to herself — “ a vile trick 
of spite or envy. No man could ever succeed 
like Louis without making enemies.” 

It was a brave thought. But the face near her 
own put it to confusion. Brave thoughts turn 
cowards sometimes. 

Victoria grasped the soft cushion of the sofa. 
She looked again at her companion. 

“ So far,” she said quietly, “ I have only your 
word for this — this extraordinary story.” She 
steadied herself resolutely, and continued. “ I believe 
you are Annie Meries' sister. You ought to be a 
respectable woman. If you are lying, God forgive 
you ! If I find that you have lied to me, I warn 
you there will be very little mercy for you ! ” 

“ It’s true,” cried the other, “ it’s true, it's true ! ” 

Victoria put up her hand. 

“ That will do,” she said calmly. “ I shall take 
every care to find out if it is” 

“ Miss Leathley,” said her visitor breathlessly, 
“ask him if his name is Loevio. Ask him did he 
ever hear of Joseph Higgins?” — she said “’Iggins,” in 
her excitement, but corrected herself quickly. “I 


318 a new note. 

know he never lets his grand friends, his West-End 
friends, know his father was a pork-butcher in the 
Mile End Road. He never could bear the shop. 
I know him all my life, for Joseph Higgins, the 
father, had our trade for many a year ; but — Lewis 
— wouldn't never do a turn in the shop. He was 
all for music and singing. And his father idolised 
him ; he was a middle-aged man when Lew was 
born (we always call him Lew), and he’d lost two 
other young sons, and he set all the more store 
by the one child left to him. He was awful proud 
of Lew’s beauty, which was extraordinary, for his 
father and mother were both as plain as could be. 
And he let him do as he liked. He gave him the 
grandest education. He was at a private academy 
for five years at Clapham. And then, when he’d 
do nothing but music, he let him have money in 
his pocket, and tutors, and go to France and the 
Continent. He sold the business out-and-out when 
the old man died, and he wouldn’t use the name 
of Higgins from that day out. He picked up the 
foreign name in France, or somewhere. And he’s 
like a foreigner, with his beautiful hair, and keeps 
himself dressed to look like one. Ask him, Miss 
Leathley, ask him this.” 

Victoria was deathly white —deathly white, and 
struggling with a horrible inclination to laugh. 

“ Loevio and his early struggles. His poverty, 
his loneliness ! ” 

The hideous grotesqueness of it all struck on 
her lacerated, quivering nerves. She could have 
laughed aloud. 

She could not, dared not speak, until the horrible 
inclination to laughter had exhausted itself. 


A NEW NOTE. 


319 


But her visiter’s loquacity continued unchecked. 
There was something pitiful in her eagerness to prove 
everything, to corroborate everything up to the hilt. 
“ Miss Leathley, you’re — a lady — and he s only just 

what I’ve said. Miss Leathley, you won’t ” 

She stopped. 

“ I beg your pardon, miss ! I beg your pardon, 

miss ! I had — no — right ” 

She faltered, and her voice failed utterly. 

Yet Victoria had not spoken. She had looked 
at her — merely looked at her ; that was all. 

She turned pale, and in her confusion began 
biting the fingers of her gloves once more. There 
was a moment’s silence. Victoria was nerving 
herself to speak, endeavouring to collect her confused 
thoughts. The other’s eyes wandered up and 
down aimlessly. In a moment they fell upon the 
antique viol, standing up gracefully against a 
corner cabinet. 

“ Lor’ ! ” she exclaimed faintly, her surprise giving 
her utterance. “ So that was what he wanted the 
old fiddle for ! I never could make out why he 
bought it. Well, I never ! ‘ Whatever upon earth 

made you buy that ? 1 said I to him, when he sent 
me to Hermann with a pound to pay for it. He 
kept it for years, and he -had me polishing it for 
days after he got it.” She smiled. “ Well, such a 
thing to give anybody / never saw ” 

Again came that horrible desire to laugh. Victoria, 
as she felt it, trembled again. She felt that she must 
laugh — or cry. Ah, it would be easier to cry now . 
For, wha a liar he was! Victoria shuddered. It 
hurt her — hurt her heart. A liar ! Somehow that 
poor, pitiful tissue of lies about the old viol hurt 


320 


A NEW NOTE. 


her with a keenness disproportionate perhaps to 
its offence. All in a moment the remembrance 
of the concert in Park Lane came back to her — 
Loevio’s eager, nervous face, every word he spoke 
as they walked down the staircase together. She 
could have smiled now at the deception, it was 
so pitiful, so trivial, so poor — smiled ; but her heart 
felt sore. It hurt her, this small, accidental revelation 
— so small, and so accidental, but so significant. Such 
a shabby, pretentious little bit of untruthfulness ; 
so unworthy, so ungentlemanly — the thought smote 
her sharply. What a contempt Jerry Annesley 
would have for this man ! The colour rose up in 
Victoria's cheeks. 

“ Where did — this — this viol come from ? ” she 
said suddenly, with an unconquerable desire to 
know everything. 

The other looked perplexed. 

“ I don't know, miss. He bought it from a Jew 
dealer, a friend of his, named Hermann. He’d a 
cold and sore throat that day, and couldn't go 
himself, so he sent me to fetch it home and to 
pay for it. That’s how I knew about it. He kept 
it ever since. But some time ago he came one 
day in a great fuss to — our place, my place — we've 
a house in Camden Town, Hawkesworth Terrace, 
it’s a good house — he's always been good in those 
ways to me and the children. Well, he wanted 
the old viol, he said, in a great fuss ; and he made 
me polish it up again. He said he was going to 
give it to Mr. Ford, Mr. Watkin Ford, of the 
Critic Theatre, and he said he was glad to pay 
Mr. Ford the compliment, for he was under obliga- 
tions to him ; and I knew he was” 


A NEW NOTE. 


321 


“ When was this ? ” Victoria interposed quickly. 

“ About a month ago,” was the reply. 

Victoria felt dazed and stupid. 

A month ago Loevio had given the viol to her. 
She put her hand to her head, over her eyes. 

“ I can’t bear it,” she said to herself. “ I can’t 
— bear it — any longer.” 

She turned towards the fireplace and rang the 
bell. 

“ I cannot — talk to you — any longer,” she said, 
turning once more to her companion. “ Don’t 
come here any more — do you hear ? I shall make 
every inquiry necessary, and ” 

“ God bless you, Miss Leathley ! ” said the other 
impulsively. “ God bless you, miss ! I knew you'd 
never ruin a poor woman and her innocent children, 
let alone marry a ” 

“ Oh hush, please ! ” 

The words, still more the accents in which they 
were spoken, brought the ready tears to the other’s 
eyes. 

“ Don’t despise me, Miss Leathley. It’s hard for 
ladies, ladies like you, to understand.” 

Victoria’s face grew harder and colder. 

“ That will do,” she said quickly. “ Never come 
here again,” she added immediately. “ Never let 
me see you again, for God’s sake ! ” 

She uttered the last words under her breath, 
to herself alone. 

The room door opened. 

The woman standing where she had risen from 
her chair, and Victoria standing near, turned, both 
of them, at the sound. 

Victoria, who had rung for a servant to show 

21 


322 


A NEW NOTE. 


her visitor out, turned perhaps a shade more quickly, 
saying at the same time, in a voice studiedly free 
from all traces of emotion, — 

“Show this person out, if you pi ” 

The word arrested hung inarticulate upon her 
lips. Her eyes dilated. Her hands fell down 
helplessly to her side. 

Loevio stood in the doorway. 


V. ■ 

• w • ■ 



Iyeovio, motionless in the doorway, looked livid . — Page 323 





















Jt — - ' * 

r 

^ • 




r i 


. 





































•- 


. 


- 

* 

* 












1 * 

> 












■ . 









a. 


%•. , t : • 

• - • r 

























•z 








% . 

*•2 * i 



















' >. 

♦ - -✓ 




» 

- 

V V 

- 








- . -- 

Jr. 

' - w - V ■ ' : ' 






















• * 

- 















































. . , /•: , v 

■'■ v:. ' .... • ■ ?;••'• - V - •.'■ 

.** • 












. 

, . 































r ■ 




- - • 


« 















CHAPTER XXX. 


For an interval of time which barely covered half 
a minute, the three stared each at the other. 

Victoria, rooted to the spot, felt her heart stop 
beating. The woman beside her sank helplessly on 
a chair close at hand. Loevio, motionless in the 
doorway, looked livid. His face was almost dis- 
torted; his hands clenched themselves convulsively; 
his eyes were terrible. Victoria, at the sight of the 
latter, quailed for a moment. 

Quite suddenly he rushed across the room. In 
one second he was close to the shrinking figure, 
which cowered still farther down in the chair, and 
shook like an aspen leaf at his approach. 

He looked mad — if ever passion made a man mad. 
The veins stood out on his forehead ; there was froth 
on his lips ; his face grew paler and paler, more 
deathly white. 

He bent over the shrinking figure. 

“ You ” 

Victoria flung herself between them. Shielding 
the woman sitting beneath her by her own body, 
she stretched out her hands and grasped his. 

“ Don't ! ” she cried quickly. “ Oh, don't, for God’s 
sake ! ” 

She raised her eyes as she said it for one lightning 
flash to his ; and as they met his she knew the worst. 
For eyes turn traitor soonest. 

323 


324 


A NEW NOTE 


One sharp, long, quivering pain ran through her 
heart — through, right through, once, and again — and 
again. 

“ My beloved ! ” Loevio whispered to her. 

“ Shut the door — at once,” she said authoritatively. 

He obeyed her without a word. 

Victoria stooped over the sitting woman as Loevio 
returned. 

“ Listen,” she said, in equal, measured accents, very 
unlike her own. “ Tell me now if what you have 
been saying to me is true.” 

The other raised her head. 

“ It — is — true ” 

She burst into tears. 

“Oh, Lew, Lew, don’t be angry with me! You 
drove me to it. You did, you did ! And for 
you to think of a — lady — like — Miss Leathley — and 
never — to think of your — unfortunate chil — dren ” 

Victoria, for the second time, held Loevio back. 

“ Send her away ! ” he said breathlessly. “ Send her 
away ! send her away ! ” His voice, as he repeated it, 
grew in intensity of tone till the words were hissed 
from between his clenched teeth. “ Send her away , 
or — God Almighty — only — knows — what I’ll do to 
her. Oh — h — you ” 

The expression of his face was frightful. 

With one hand Victoria raised the woman from 
the chair ; with the other she kept Loevio back. 

“You must go,” she said gently to the former. 
(t Please go at once.” 

The other offered no opposition. She looked 
scared to death. She was sobbing wildly. 

The sound of her sobs seemed to awake a fresh 
accession of fury in Loevio. 


A NEW NOTE. 325 

His chest heaved. In the abandonment of passion 
he almost flung Victoria out of his way. 

“ Let me,” he muttered furiously, “ let me get at 
her, the ” 

With all her force Victoria clung to his arm. 

“No,” she exclaimed resolutely, “no, no.” She 
pushed him back and held him, her hands pressed 
against his breast. “ Are you mad ? ” she added 
quickly, looking up undaunted into his face. “Do 
you wish to have every servant in the house here 
in a minute ? Stand back ! Ah — don’t hurt her, 
don’t touch her — for my sake. Wait for me here, till 
I come back.” 

She drew the woman with her towards the door, 
and her eyes fixed themselves imploringly on 
Loevio. 

“Wait for me,” she said again. 

His frame shook from head to foot. As she spoke 
his strength seemed, all in a moment, to forsake him. 
He sank quite suddenly down on the sofa where 
Victoria had been sitting. His face turned grey, 
and he looked faint. He covered his face with his 
hands as the two women crossed the room and 
went out of the door together. 

Outside on the landing Victoria turned once more 
to her visitor. 

“ Go,” she said again very gently. “ Go at once. 
No. Don’t speak.” 

She stood at the head of the stairs, and watched 
the shrinking figure as it shambled stupidly down 
the long staircase. She stood there till she heard 
the hall door bang. 

Then she went back to Loevio. 

He raised his head as she entered the room. His 


326 


A NEW NOTE. 


face had regained, even in the brief interval, a faint 
tinge of its usual florid colouring. When he saw 
Victoria alone his eyes softened. He stood up, and 
with his shaking hands made a faint attempt to 
re-arrange his thick, clustering hair, while in- 
voluntarily he smoothed the front of his coat. His 
passion was as evanescent as it was furious in its 
intensity. The traces of it were likewise of com- 
paratively short duration. 

There was a short pause as he stood up. Victoria, 
halfway across the room, halted. She looked 
haggard, and her face was drawn. For the moment 
she even looked feeble. All at once she and Loevio 
seemed to have changed places. He it was who 
now assumed, as it were, command of the situation. 

He moved towards her quickly as her steps 
ceased. 

If he looked, to a certain extent, uneasy, he spoke 
easily, at any rate. His voice had almost regained 
its usual delicious timbre , the pure musicalness of 
the tenor notes which, more than any other, produce 
distinct effect upon the accents of speech. 

“ Victoria ” — he lingered upon her name with an 
intonation that was a caress — “ what can I say ? How 
can I tell you how annoyed I am at your being 

subjected to ” He paused abruptly. “ How white 

and tired you look ! Won't you sit down, my dearest? 
You must sit here and rest." 

He put out his hands to draw her towards the 
sofa, but they barely reached the outermost flutter 
of her dress, for she drew back instantly. 

Loevio tried to smile. 

Victoria looked at him steadily. Her eyes were 
dark and cold, and the curious intensity of expression 


A NEW NOTE. 


327 


in them, which lingered beneath the upper coldness, 
reminded Loevio more forcibly than ever of the eyes 
which Beethoven's portraits have made familiar to 
us. Her lips were parted, yet, just for a second, 
she did not speak. When she did, her voice sounded 
weak, like the voice of a person who has undergone 
bodily illness. She spoke with intense effort. But 
she spoke, all the same. 

“ It is best,” she said slowly, “ to let us end this 
as quickly as possible. You came in before — that — 
woman went away. I suppose you know — at least, 
you conjectured ; I saw that — what it was she came 
for, what it was she told me ? ” 

She paused. Her eyes were fixed on his face. The 
latter changed. 

Loevio’s command of facial expression was, as a 
rule, that of an actor. He had regained it by this 
time. 

His face now showed anger and coldness. He 
flung out his hands, and shrugged his shoulders 
slightly, with an admirable calculation of requisite 
gesture. 

“ Ah ! ” he exclaimed, suiting the word to the 
gesture, “ I am condemned — without a hearing. 
Trust a woman for that ! ” 

A little colour came up in Victoria’s cheeks. Her 
eyes softened. Her whole face grew irresolute. 

“ No,” she said quickly ; “oh no ! Explain every- 
thing, if you will — or can.” 

Loevio smiled again. 

He turned his hands palms outwards; he raised 
his eyebrows. 

“ My dearest ” — there was grave, tender rebuke in 
the words — “do you think these matters are quite 


328 


A NEW NOTE. 


for you ? I think they are not at all for you ; not 
at all for you ! ” 

Victoria looked at him again. 

“ I don’t know what you mean? she said 
haughtily. 

Loevio was taken aback. For once he was 
thoroughly at a loss. His experience of woman- 
kind, if extensive, was limited ; it extended only 
within a certain circle. The circle was wide, certainly, 
but it was only a circle. He was afraid of Victoria, 
but still more desperately afraid of blundering. 

Victoria’s face changed. She uttered a little cry. 
She looked at him once more, and her whole face 
quivered. 

“ Oh,” she said piteously, “ why, why did you 
do it?” 

The weakness which would not be controlled, 
the feminine impulse which for the moment over- 
rode even anger, touched him at once. 

“ My darling,” he cried quickly, “ trust me ! Leave 
me to deal with these disagreeable matters. Forget 
it. Trust me, Victoria.” 

She turned from him as if the words cut her to 
the heart. Her eyes fell on the old viol. She bit 
her lip till it nearly bled. 

“ Trust him!” The words mocked her. Once 
more she looked at him. Her voice was hoarse 
when she spoke again. 

“You bought that viol from a Jew dealer. Why 
did you tell me that it had belonged to your 
family — that it had been given to your grand- 
mother ? ” 

Loevio laughed. But the laugh had a false note in it. 

“ Did I tell you that, darling ? Oh, well, I should 


A NEW NOTE. 329 

have said it belonged to my uncle . What? Don't 
you see the joke? ” 

Victoria stared at him. 

He seemed perfectly unashamed. But he was 
not unashamed ; on the contrary, he was furiously 
ashamed of her discovering that his family could 
not boast an heirloom. 

A curious feeling grasped the girl's* heart. It 
was not disgust — not quite — yet ; but the first step 
towards it. 

" Oh ! ” she exclaimed, with a quick gesture of 
repugnance. 

Loevio looked puzzled. 

“ Well, I bought it really, just for you ; just to 
have the pleasure of showing it to you ; just because 
you took an interest in it. I did indeed, upon my 
soul." 

Victoria moved impulsively. She came close to 
him, closer than she had been yet, and laid her 
hand on his arm. Her lips trembled as his eyes 
met her up-turned ones. 

“ Louis," she said softly ; “ don’t break my heart." 

He caught her to him passionately, before she 
had time to resist. 

“ My dear love, my own, my darling, trust me ! 
Victoria, Victoria, you don’t know, you can't know 
what you are to me — how I love you ! My beloved, 
you are the whole world to me — my life, my 
happiness, my — heaven ! " 

As the passionate words left his lips she freed 
herself from his embrace. Her face changed. 
A little cold sneer twisted her lips. Her eyes 
flashed. 

“ Oh," she said sneeringly, “ did you say all 


330 


A NEW NOTE. 


that to — the other woman too — the poor, unhappy 
girl whom you tempted — and ruined — and flung 
aside ? ” 

Loevio changed colour. His lips hardened. He 
laughed — a sneering laugh, too. 

“ Oh-h ! ” he exclaimed, with a certain inflexion 
in his voice ; “ the old story ! My dear Victoria, 
you force me to it ; but I assure you I should never 
have supposed you likely to take refuge in the old, 
stock melodramatic scream ! ” 

Victoria looked at him intently. A change came 
over the current of her feelings. Quite suddenly 
the intensity of her own personal emotion seemed 
to lessen, and, with corresponding force, the critical 
faculty of her mind, which, when she was with 
Loevio, was so much in abeyance, to reassert itself. 
He, without knowing the cause, perceived the effect. 
The change in her whole demeanour perplexed him 
first, but relieved him next. 

He believed it was due to the salutary effect of 
his own attitude and words throughout. 

He was about to speak, when she interposed. 

“ Wait,” she said quietly. “ Let us talk this 
- — this — question out fairly. We are neither of us 
children ; it is absurd to treat the — matter as if we 
were.” 

Loevio looked blandly acquiescent. 

Victoria, proceeding, watched him closely ; more 
closely than perhaps he was aware. 

“ That woman — who was here ” — her voice was 
slightly lowered, and not quite so clear or rapid as 
usual — “ came to me, because your — marriage — will 
ruin — her.” 

Loevio was about to speak, but she put up her hand. 


A NEW NOTE. 


331 


“ I know who the woman is. I knew her sister. 
They are respectable people. She can have no 
object whatever in persisting in the — account which 
she gave me of her life — except money — or the 
object which she declares is hers. She says she 
does not want money, and I believe her. I am 
forced to believe her. She wants that which is 
dearer to most women — her good name.” Victoria’s 
voice softened. “ Poor creature, her good name.” 

Loevio smiled. 

“ My innocent darling, what do you know, what 
can you know, of ‘ poor creatures ’ such as that ? ” 

Victoria turned white. She felt as if a whip’s 
lash had cut across her face. It was the first un- 
conscious revelation of the nature of the man before 
her. For a moment she quailed. She quailed at 
the possibilities which might be dragged to light 
if she persisted. For a moment the temptation 
was strong — only God and herself knew how strong 
— to cut short the trial of this thing, and to let him 
go while yet some belief in him was possible. By 
persisting, she was going to do more than merely 
deny herself a few years of supposititious happiness ; 
she was going, probably, to tear out the fibres of 
her heart, one by one, in deliberate, self-inflicted 
torture. Was it worth it? The question flashed 
vividly across her mind. Was it worth it to injure 
her whole being for the sake of sifting the cha- 
racter of this man who had taken possession of 
her whole heart ? Victoria quivered. The sifting ! 
Why sift? She quivered, and her heart winced. 
Why sift ? Only to escape the bare possibility of 
doing an injustice to him, in one direction or 
another. Was it worth it? 


332 


A NEW NOTE. 


Loevio saw the hesitation, and fancied he saw 
an advantage. 

“ My dearest,” he said persuasively, “ I am inclined 
to be a trifle old-fashioned perhaps, but do you 
think the attitude of the present day is altogether 
an admirable one in putting men on their trial, 
so to speak, for every indiscretion ? ” 

He stopped and smiled deprecatingly, as he saw 
Victoria’s eyes again looking at him fixedly. 

“ Indiscretion ! ” she repeated slowly. “ Do you 
call it indiscretion to tempt a young, innocent, 
unhappy woman to break the law of God and man, 
and then to basely deceive her, and leave her to 
bear all the consequences alone ? Do you call that 
indiscretion ? No, don’t answer too quickly.” 

Loevio shrugged his shoulders. 

“ M — well — I’ll call it anything you like. Per- 
sonally , I dislike excessively discussing, even remotely, 
such an affair with you ; but as you seem determined 
to do it, and to know all, and judge all, why — there 
is no more to be said.” 

A tightness gripped Victoria’s heart as he spoke, 
Her whole heart was in her eyes as she raised her 
face to his again. 

“ Louis,” she whispered — and it seemed to her 
that she was pleading with herself, with him, for 
something that was slipping away — away, ah, God ! 
so fast ! — “ you didn’t mean at first to — to — trick 
her ? You meant at first to — marry her, didn’t you ? ” 

Loevio looked at her. There was a little silence 
— a silence Victoria never forgot. 

“ Oh yes,” said Loevio presently. “ Oh yes, I did, 
you know. I meant to marry her, oh yes. A man 
— always does, you know ; at least — er ” 


A NEW NOTE. 333 

But it was a lie, and he knew it — a lie, and 
Victoria felt it 

Yet, no; she struggled for him yet 

She was silent for a moment, and he began to 
breathe more freely. After all, he decided, women 
were pretty much alike everywhere. It all resolved 
itself into a question of management. He was quite 
sure of his own perspicacity by this time. 

Already, moreover, the disagreeableness of the 
past minutes was fading away. 

He drew closer to Victoria where she stood. 
She was looking down, and her face was pale. It 
showed in its lines strenuous thought. She was 
thinking, fighting — for him. 

Loevio feasted his eyes — as he was never weary 
of feasting them — and his senses with the delights 
of her close presence. 

“ Victoria,” he said softly, standing as he was a 
little behind her, and gazing at the cloudy waves 
of her hair, “ don't let your mind dwell any longer 
on this. Trust me. It is enough for you to know 
that I am free, darling — -free as air ! ” 

She raised her head and looked upwards to him 
as he bent a little over hen 

The backward glance of her eyes, the pose of 
her head thrown back against him, delighted him. 
He moved closer to her. He wanted to draw her 
head down on his breast. Victoria’s steady gaze 
disconcerted him for a moment. And in that 
moment her attitude changed. She turned and 
faced him full, standing farther away from him, 
looking him squarely in the face with a resolute, 
tranquil, curious scrutiny. 

“Free?” she repeated slowly. “ You” 


334 


A NEW NOTE. 


Loevio’s face flushed. A pang of uneasiness shot 
through him ; yet her attitude, her words, and the 
tone of her voice, aroused in him another feeling, 
more of irritation than apprehension. 

“ Certainly,” he responded decisively. “ Free — as 
free as nine men out of ten.” 

The last sentence was a bit of bravado pure and 
simple. It was the outcome, or the impulse, of 
the mingled and opposing forces of fear and 
annoyance. 

The woman, facing him, looked at him again. 
Her eyes glittered. 

“Free?” she repeated again. “Do you mean to 
tell me that — she — the woman who was here — has 
— no claim on you? — no claim — which binds you?” 

Loevio smiled. 

“ My dear,” he said at once — and he spoke with 
more than his usual softness — “you are a woman 
of the world, and you are far too much a woman 
of your own world, and far too — er” — he laughed 
slightly — “ far too modern not to be aware of the fact 
that many men — most men — regard themselves as 
free, and — women ” — he laughed — “ are willing to 
regard them as free also, when no legal bar to 
marriage stands in the way. As to other — er ” 

Victoria blushed scarlet. Her heart contracted 
again with another wrench, but she was excessively 
angry. She drew herself to her full height, and 
her voice was choking, as she interrupted him 
quickly. 

“ How dare you ! ” she exclaimed. “ Because I 
happen to write music, are you to — speak of — of 
— to — say such things to me ? ” 

Loevio was perfectly disconcerted. Her anger 


A NEW NOTE. 


335 


amazed him. Hang it all, he thought, new or old. 
women are confoundedly puzzling! The magnitude 
of his offence positively passed him by. But he 
began to be very much afraid of losing her. 

“ Pardon me ! ” he said quickly. “ Forgive me, 
dearest ! I am a brute, but the whole thing is hurting 
me. You don't realise how it is hurting me — how 
nauseating it is to me. Don't be hard, dearest 
Make allowances. The best of women — and you 
are the best of women — make allowances, large 
allowances, sometimes." 

He smiled at her — a tender, pleading smile. 

Victoria looked distraught. 

“ Oh ! " she cried impulsively, “ how can I make 
allowances — how can I, when I remember what 
I have heard, what I know ? Oh ! " She buried 
her face in her hands. 

She raised her head again a second later. 

“ Have you no feeling for — her — that poor woman? 
Think what it is you intended to do ! Think of 
how you planned to — destroy her ! Have you no 
pity — that — not content with destroying her life 
you are willing to disgrace her — openly — in the 
eyes of her mother, her — relations? You can de- 
liberately set yourself to do this, to shame her ? 
Have you no pity for her? Can you not feel 
sorry for her? — or even for " 

She stopped. The words had rushed on, spoken 
as they were out of a full heart. But — not even 
to do justice, not even to plead for pity, not 
even to appeal to the best instincts of human 
nature, could Victoria bring herself to speak to the 
man of his children. 

There are things that cannot be said. 


336 


A NEW NOTE. 


Involuntarily she averted her face. It was drawn. 
Her lips were white ; her eyes were dark with emotion. 

At once Loevio understood, and a swift flood 
of compassion rushed over him. 

He tried hard to smile without embarrassment. 

“ Dear child,” he said gently, “ you are distressing 
yourself needlessly. Poor, dear little child, you 
are wasting your pity. Victoria — the — person— er — 

the — I — I have provided — will provide too for ” 

He stumbled horribly, and he felt his face getting 
crimson. “ IPs not fair to blame me,” he cried 
sharply. “Oh, I daresay she didn’t think it worth 
while to tell you of all the money she — they — 
have cost me. Upon my soul, I’ve paid dearly for 
ever seeing her face ! Women never think of this. 
It’s all very well to look at things from a senti- 
mental standpoint, but hard facts can’t be denied. 
I think if you were to put it to an impartial 
conclave of witnesses, you’d find I’d been as 
generous as most men. Of course” (with a sort 
of laugh) “ I don’t want to take any credit ; only, 
when you upbraid me like this — a man must make 
some defence. A ” 

He paused suddenly. 

Victoria, her hands clasped behind her, was 
looking at him intently. 

“ Don’t say any more,” she exclaimed hurriedly. 
“ Please, please don’t. We are on different planes. 
Nothing can make matters better, nothing can 
change — the past. Nothing, either, I suppose, that 
I can say will influence you. I — I — am sorry ! ” 
Her voice broke suddenly ; it would not be controlled 
any longer. “ I wanted to — remember you as — as 
— to think well of you — in the future.” 


A NEW NOTE. 


337 


Loevio grew deadly white. 

“ What — what do you mean ? ” he said at once, 
“Why do you talk of the future like that?” 

Her face flushed. Before she could speak he 
made a step towards her. 

“Victoria,” he said sharply, for his voice was 
strained in its intensity, “do you mean that you 
are going — to — let this — really make a difference 
between us — really come — between us? Victoria,” 
—his voice sank to a hoarse whisper as he said it 
— “ if you do anything like that you will kill me ! 
You will, as surely as you live ! Oh, you couldn't, 
you couldn't be so cruel ! Oh, I would have sworn 
that you were above any petty feelings of that 
sort ! ” 

Victoria stared at him. Something in the ex- 
pression of her face infuriated him. He flung 
himself about the room in a wild accession of 
passion. 

“ Pshaw ! ” he cried furiously, with a short laugh 
of mad rage, “ it’s all the damnedest rot, this talk 
nowadays about men and women — the damnedest 
rot ! Downright canting folly ! As if men and 
women could be alike, could ever understand perfectly 
the special circumstances of each others' lives. You 
have filled your mind with this sort of canting 
humbug, this infernal ” 

But in another second the swing of the pendulum 
carried the passionate, emotional temperament to 
the opposite point. 

“My darling, my darling, forgive me! Ah, you 
will not be hard, you will not be unforgiving? 
Remember, I am yours, and yours alone. I never 
loved, never knew what love was, till I met you ! ” 

zz 


338 


A NEW NOTE. 


Victoria, as he spoke, felt that she was sinking 
— down, down into an abyss of black mud. Without 
knowing it, she recoiled from him. 

He made a frantic effort to calm himself. He 
pressed his lips together, and clenched his hands 
tightly, with a pitiful intensity that was pathetic. 

“ Victoria,” he said again, and he tried hard 
to steady his voice, “ you have my whole life 
in your hands. Dearest, I will do anything for 
you. You can make me what you will ; only, 
don’t send me away. I will wait, I will wait ! I 
will prove how I love you ! I will do anything, 
everything ” 

His voice gave way altogether. 

Victoria looked haggard. 

“Oh,” she ejaculated faintly, “ can you think, 
can you actually suppose that /, knowing this, 
would ” 

She turned away. 

Loevio stamped his foot. 

“ Why not ? ” he cried angrily. “ I am a free 
man! Pah! you are not a child! You know, as 
well as I do, that I am no more tied than any 
other man ! You haven’t lived to this day of your 
life among the men of your own — set — not to know 
what men are.” 

Victoria felt cold from head to foot. 

She had rejected Jerry Annesley for this 
man ! 

The idiot fatuity of her own exceeding wisdom 
twisted her lips into a travesty of a smile. 

“ I can tell you,” Loevio continued, with a little, 
sneering note in his voice, “ if you marry any man 
of your acquaintance, perhaps you’ll find he will 


A NEW NOTE. 


339 


scarcely pay his wife such honour as I shall pay 
mine. Victoria, I will devote my life to my wife ! 
I swear it before God ! There is no man in 
England, not one of your swells , I assure you, 
who would honour his wife more perfectly than I 
shall!" 

He paused to take breath. He was genuinely 
pleased with the speech. He watched its effect with 
delighted anticipation. 

Victoria raised her eyes with an effort. 

“You have one wife before God and heaven,” she 
said coldly. “ If you mean what you say, honour 
her\" 

Loevio smiled slightly. 

“ That is very generous of you,” he said warmly, 
“ and very womanly, sweetly womanly ! But you ask 
an impossibility. You want me to ruin my life 
because many years ago, when I was younger, and 
in every way inferior to what I am now, I took pity 
on a girl who was tied to a brute, and released her. 
She was jolly willing to be released, I assure you. 
Well, she's had a very good time — a much better 
time than I’ve had — and I’m not going to be sacrificed 
now. I've made my life and my career what it is. No 
one knows better than you do what it means to 
make a career such as mine. Well, never mind ; 
I’ve made it. And now , to hang a millstone round 
my neck in the shape of a second-rate wife and ” 

He stammered and reddened. 

“ I — I — mean,” he continued hastily, “ that now I 
am entitled, fairly entitled, to a very different sort 
of — person — for my wife. It's a different rung of 
the ladder, in fact, altogether. I'm willing to do all 
that’s fair. I promise you I’ll provide handsomely 


340 


A NEW NOTE. 


— handsomely for — for them all. It’s no joke to 
promise this ; for although I’ve been exceptionally 
lucky, still, artists are seldom millionaires. And be- 
sides ” — he smiled softly — “ I shall think everything I 
have too little for — for the future.” 

Victoria was silent. He could not see her eyes ; 
he wished he could. But he began afresh, — 

“ Therefore you see what injustice you are doing 
me by the view you are taking so persistently. ’ 

Victoria turned to him. 

“ Injustice ! ” she said coldly, and she paused. 
“ Tell me,” she said entreatingly, an instant later, 
“ tell me why you did not marry — that woman ? You 
have said that at first you intended to marry her. 
Why did you not do so ? She was not a bad, wicked 
woman, was she ? ” 

There was a little silence. Victoria kept her eyes 
fixed on his face. 

Loevio looked down at the floor and shuffled his feet. 

Victoria waited. 

He looked up presently, with an effort, and he 
laughed : but the laugh jarred on Victoria. 

He raised his eyebrows. 

“ Well,” he said at last, “ that’s just it. I suppose 
you can’t understand, and I don’t want to be too 
hard on any one ; but when a man finds a woman 
willing to — er — to leave her husband, or to — that’s 
what women can't understand, won't understand, 
that — after — anything of the — sort — a man doesn't 
want to marry the — the woman, you see — er. So, 
if you ask if this woman was a bad or wicked 
woman — oh, well,” — he shrugged his shoulders - 
“we won’t go into that She was bad enough 
to- 


A NEW NOTE. 


341 


Victoria lifted her eyes once more to his face. 
She gave him one long, questioning, heart-broken 
look. He was conscious of his unwearied admiration 
for the dark intensity of her eyes, the mingled firm- 
ness and delicacy of her mouth. 

“ I am going to ask you to do me one favour,” 
she said, in accents which betrayed the hopelessness 
of her thoughts. “ I shall never ask you another.” 

“You shall ask me hundreds,” he interposed 
gracefully. 

She took no notice of the interruption. 

“ I ask you to — go — now , without trying to — say 
anything more.” 

Loevio turned white. 

“ Ah, no,” he cried impulsively, and there was real 
anguish in it, “ah no, no, anything but that! Not, 
at least, until you promise to forgive me ! ” 

He paused, and smiled haggardly. 

“Very well,” he said again. “Yes, I will go, now y 
of course, as you wish it ; but — to-morrow ” 

Victoria looked at him steadily once more. 

“No,” she said, in a clear, low voice, “no, not 
to-morrow, or — ever.” 

The man stood still. A little breeze which had 
sprung up came in freshly through the open windows, 
and blew the blended sweetness of the roses across 
his face. 

Victoria turned away and walked to the open 
window. She felt stifled, as if she wanted air. 

Loevio watched her stupidly. 

“ I will go,” — he said hoarsely, rousing himself 
with an effort, “ I will go, — certainly, — as you wish 
it. But — to-morrow. You will see it all — differently 
— to-morrow.” 


342 


A NEW NOTE. 


He smiled hopefully. 

“ I don’t blame you, dearest,” he added, coming 
to her side. “ After all, you see, women are jealous 
mortals. I am flattered, really.” 

Victoria never moved. 

Well — to-morrow.” He paused. A grey shade 
stole over the whiteness of his face. “ Victoria ” — 
the word was only a whisper, but it sounded as if the 
speaker were wrestling with some force that was 
strangling his utterance — “ to — to-morrow ! ” 

But she did not turn — not a hair’s breadth. 

Loevio straightened his shoulders with a gesture 
w T hich the admirers of Loevio the actor knew well. 
He forced his lips to smile again — to smile, to smile ! 
He wrung that smile from the farthest stores of his 
self-control. 

“ To-morrow ” 

He left the room with the word and the smile 
on his lips. 

***** 

Victoria leaned against the wood of the window. 
The sunshine and the breeze played on her face, 
which was white and set. 

“ My God ! ” she murmured. “ And I wanted to be 
that man’s wife ! ” 

William the Conqueror sat up and combed his 
tail — or did in his estimation what was equivalent to 
combing his tail. He did it with the care a well- 
bred gentleman bestows upon his person. Just 
awake from his afternoon siesta, and perched on the 
topmost cushion of the sofa, he found the sunshine 
and the breeze eminently gratifying. He paused once 
in his proceedings to look at his mistress. She was 


A NEW NOTE. 


343 


standing very motionless by the window. William the 
Conqueror resumed operations on a fresh bit of his 
tail. When that was finished he again looked at his 
mistress. She had not stirred. William the Con- 
queror sat erect on the silken cushion, and purred 
gently. His beautifully combed tail was folded with 
flawless exactitude and neatness round his forepaws. 
He looked handsome and serene. He had arrived 
at a period of life when inordinate expectations cease 
to agitate, and trivial gratifications are sufficient to 
satisfy. The pathetic obliquity of man's mind looks 
upon this period of life with — pity. 

Suddenly, in the street below, a piano-organ burst 
into a roulade of melody. Vigorously it worked 
away on its level plane of noise till a sound within 
the room rose above it. 

William the Conqueror opened his half-shut eyes. 
His mistress's head lay prone on the window-sill ; 
his mistress was sobbing her heart out in hot, heart- 
rending tears. 

The piano -organ in the street outside was trium- 
phantly playing “ Sappho's Song,” double-forte all 
the way through. 

Some one below, in the house, threw the piano- 
organist a trifling coin. At the same moment a 
bell — the first dressing-bell — rang out through the 
house, sharply reverberant. William the Conqueror 
cocked his ear. Dinner instantly became reflected 
in the corner of William the Conqueror's right eye. 
Dinner ! 

He glanced again at his mistress. The piano- 
organist, doubtless in grateful recognition of unwonted 
largesse, was now turning the handle of his machine 
with perfectly frenzied zeal. “ Sappho’s Song ” rang 


344 


A NEW NOTE. 


louder and louder, in an absolute stampede of resonant, 
mechanical melody. 

Victoria lifted her head. The reverberating echoes 
of the first dressing-bell were dying into silence. She 
turned away from the window. Her eyes — now — 
were dry, quite dry. There were no tears in them — 
no tears, now, even in her heart. Her face was 
composed, but it was white, white with the pallor of 
the heart, and something had gone out of it — for 
ever. Victoria advanced into the room. A cushion 
had fallen off the sofa. She lifted it carefully, and 
restored it to its place. Her room looked untidy ; 
its disarrangement offended her sense of order and 
neatness. She moved about, the evening sunshine 
playing on her dark, well-poised head, and on her 
slight figure, in its pale, graceful mauve draperies, 
putting this thing and that to rights — a book or 
two, some scattered newspapers on one of the little 
tables. She set each in order. 

The piano stood open. On it, lying where she — 
no doubt — had carelessly flung it aside, was the full 
score of her own opera. Taking it up, she smoothed 
out the rumpled pages carefully, and, closing the book, 
thrust it under her arm, and held it there, closely 
pressed against her side. 

She shut the piano firmly. There, everything was 
in order now. 

The piano-organ below was nearly played out. 
In another moment it would go away to play for 
somebody else. 

Victoria walked out of the room, the book of her 
opera still held closely against her side, just under her 
heart. Everything was in order once more, and she 


A NEW NOTE. 


345 


went to dress for dinner. The very ordinary routine 
knew no interruption. So — we are here to buy ex- 
perience and — to pay for it. Meanwhile, the recurrent 
minutiae of Life goes beautifully on. The trivially 
important, the importantly trivial, claim us for their 
own at all points. 


THE END. 



























library of congress 



□0QSiaSbl5Q 


